Telegraph Road
by ohcEEcho
Summary: All his life, Dean’s never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. But he’s only human and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hey! First Supernatural fic, so please be gentle! I'm British, and I'm afraid I don't know much about travelling on the road in America, so…if you see any British-isms (do those even exist? Guess so) Please point them out! I'd like to get the context right. Thanks!**

**For instance, what do you call petrol stations, garages or just rest stops, or…ok, off point. I'll shut up. **

**IMPORTANT: I do not write ANY Dean/OC or Mary-sues (shudders) Cassie was from the episode 'Route 666' for those who managed to miss it. I'm NOT a Dean/Cassie shipper (though I have nothing against her)…BUT she wont be around for long…(evil smirk) **

**This fic'll contain lots of angsty, fluffy brotherly love (while attempting to remain vaguely canon) but no slash. **

**Disclaimer: (grumbles) Well, last time I looked, I didn't own it. (looks again) And, what do you know! I still don't. (sulks)**

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. **

**I hope you enjoy!**

**1.**

**Open Road**

It may seem odd, but there was something about being on the open road which appealed to Dean Winchester. He couldn't explain it, but somehow, it was a liberating feeling; the rough, reassuringly solid wheel of the impala comfortably moulding into the grooves of his palms. He felt a sense of belonging, of peace, which he found it difficult to emulate anywhere else. With the heavens above him and the earth below him, and nothing but him in between.

And Sam, of course.

He glanced over to the passenger side, his lips quirking upwards as he observed his little brother once again fitfully asleep, slumped awkwardly with his head supported by the window pane, his gentle breaths misting up the glass. Dean rolled his eyes to the roof, and reached over with practiced ease to tug Sam gently over until his head rested on the worn leather seat instead. He grinned as Sam grumbled something unintelligible in his sleep and shifted a little, before settling; Dean turned his eyes back to the road.

Doing what he did, Dean didn't let his guard down easily. Not having a definite home was more difficult than you would expect. Well, considering the closest thing he had to home had half burnt down and contained memories of his mother pinned to the ceiling, it was understandable that the whole concept of 'safety' and 'security' did not come readily to him. Nor did he particularly want it to, really. He was more of a free spirit; craving adventure, craving purpose. But that didn't mean he didn't miss being able to relax every once in a while.

He glanced over at his brother, then quickly looked away. Anywhere they were together was home to him: he and Sam. Home was Sammy; it always had been. And Dad, of course, but-

"…Dad…?"

Dean drew in a sharp breath, head snapping around at the sound of his brother's muffled voice. Sam frowned in his sleep, sighed, and shifted about, eyes roving around beneath closed lids. Dean exhaled slowly, carefully releasing his white knuckled clench around the steering wheel. Sam often muttered in his sleep nowadays; since the nightmares began. Or should he say visions? Damn, how the hell should he know? Sam never even told him until it was absolutely necessary.

Sammy never told him anything anymore. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a dull ache begin to settle in the forefront of his mind. It was going to rain soon. The sky above was rapidly darkening, clouds scurrying hurriedly across this way and that, as though fleeing some unseen force. Dean stepped on the brake as he caught sight of a road sign up ahead, which proclaimed in faded, rusted lettering:

**Welcome to Cape Girardeau**

_**Petrol Station 1 mile**_

_**Motel 50 yards**_

Dean checked the gas meter, his brow furrowing as he noticed it was less than half full. He glanced down at his watch; 8:13. Too bad. They could drop off at the petrol station and tank up tomorrow. No all-night drives this time; he had…business to attend to.

Dean briefly flexed his hands around the steering wheel, wincing slightly as the joints creaked and cracked in protest. Sure, he enjoyed long car rides, but that didn't mean he didn't get stiff once in a while. Sighing, he stepped on the accelerator and squinted into the distance, just managing to make out the looming shape of a small building in the gathering darkness.

He manoeuvred the impala around into the corner of a small fenced of area beside the motel, which was evidently supposed to serve as a car park. A flickering neon sign above a faded cream coloured door cast slight shadows across the interior of the car, making it seem like a scene in an old black and white movie, with glitches in the recording. Dean switched the engine off, and sat back for a moment, frowning as the first pattering of light rain began to beat against the roof of the car. He smiled as the gentle rhythm of Sam's breathing and the soft lull of rain soothed his worn nerves.

"Sam?"

Dean nudged his brother's shoulder with his elbow, smirking as Sam groaned in protest and scrunched up his nose, eyes stirring beneath shadowed lids. He hadn't been sleeping too peacefully recently; nightmares, and God knows what else.

Swallowing thickly and pushing that thought away, Dean poked his brother's midsection, just below his ribs, Sam's most ticklish spot. His brother made a sound somewhere between an indignant grunt of protest and a snort of giggles, and groggily batted Dean's hand away.

"Sammy! C'mon Princess, I ain't got all day. A face like mine needs its beauty sleep too, y'know."

Dean grinned smugly as Sam opened his eyes, frowning, then scrubbed at his aching cheeks with a loose fist, obviously trying to dispel the lingering veil of sleep. He looked oddly young, rubbing his face like the little boy Dean sometimes wished he still was. The elder Winchester sighed quietly.

"…I can see why…how many innocent mirrors you murdered with that thing?"

Sam said, managing to inject dry humour into a voice riddled with tiredness. Dean mock-gasped, and dramatically clutched a hand to his heart, feigning hurt.

"Ow! Dude…"

Sam rolled his eyes exasperatedly, but his lips twitched upwards in the betrayal of a smile. Dean sighed dramatically, allowing his shoulders to droop and giving his little brother an innocently affronted look.

"That was uncalled for, Sammy-boy. Now don't be such a whiner and get the hell outta my car; I don't wanna have to wipe anymore drool off my leather."

Sam bolted upright and glared.

"I do not drool!"

"Whatever, man. Get out the car."

Dean opened the door with a loud creak, and squinted through the rain as he grabbed his jacket and hurriedly pulled it around his shoulders. He grabbed their Father's journal and tucked it securely under his arm, pocketed his wallet and then slammed the car door and locked it. Sam hurried around the front of the car, arms wrapped around himself for warmth, clutching his laptop to his chest.

As they began to walk the short distance across gravel to the motel, Sam glanced around at the bleak and empty road, then frowned, and glanced down at his watch. Dean hunched his shoulders against the rain, shoving his hands into his pockets.

"We staying the night in that place? Dean, it's only eight fifteen. You weren't serious about the beauty sleep, were you?"

Dean paused for a moment, then muttered gruffly:

"Nah. I just figured…you know. Get an early night, catch up on some…sleep. I was gonna head into town, get some…work done."

Sam wiped the rain irritably from his eyes then raised an eyebrow, his expression sceptical.

"Head into town, in this weather? Yeah, I can guess what sort of 'work' you'll wanna catch. You realise the whole phone call in the bathroom was totally unsubtle, don't you?"

Dean froze, hand outstretched to grab the handle of the door to the motel. They were now standing in a sort of porch, under a wooden gable which lack of drainpipes left water cascading down around them noisily.

Dean wrenched the door open with rather more force than was necessary.

"Bitch. You were listenin'. And while I coulda been doin' my business, too. That's low, Sammy."

Sam grinned, shaking his hair to dispel rainwater like a puppy (and showering an already aggravated Dean with water) stepping into a room which served as a reception, wiping his feet neatly on the front doormat as he did so.

"It's Sam." He said automatically "And it was totally obvious you weren't going in there to do any 'business'."

Dean gave him a slightly disturbed look.

"How?"

Sam rolled his eyes, smiling patronisingly down at his brother. He absolutely loved being able to look down at Dean. Being tall did have its advantages.

"Because you'd already gone to the loo…twice in five minutes. Did you forget? Or…"

Sam's grin widened.

"Or did you just not have the courage to phone her the first two times?"

Dean growled and punched Sam's shoulder as he passed him, moving towards a small rickety desk in a corner on which a small bell stood.

"YOU are about the width of a nose hair away from receiving a major ass-kicking. Jerk. Now get moving, before I get the spade and whack your eavesdropping ass."

Sam shook his head, stifling his laughter in his sleeve as he wiped the remaining rainwater from his face. After a moment, he blinked, frowned, and tapped his brother on the shoulder lightly.

"Hey, Dean…"

"Yeah?"

Dean grunted gruffly, not bothering to look at his brother.

"How do you know what the width of a nose hair is?"

Sam asked, deadpan, partly amused, partly curious. Dean had always been known to say and do odd and/or inappropriate things, but nose hairs? Maybe that orange juice this morning had been more off than he thought…

"What kinda a question is that? Because I measured it, obviously. Permission to continue, Captain Goody-two-spy-on-people-in-the-loo-shoes?"

Dean said breezily. Sam blinked and stared, shifted his weight, opened his mouth, hesitated, then blinked again. He honestly could not tell if Dean was joking or not.

"Dean, you are supremely odd. You're joking, right?"

Dean's blank, neutral look informed his bemused brother that he was deadly serious.

"Ok, now I'm just disturbed. You worry me, you know that?"

Dean rolled his eyes, reaching for the bell on the table and giving it two sharp shakes, the tinkling ring resounding around the little back room behind the desk.

"…whatever."

An elderly, white haired man came bustling out of the back room, wearing a chequered shirt and a tired but friendly smile. He placed what looked like a log book carefully down on the desk, withdrew a pen from his jacket pocket, and smiled at them.

"What can I do for ya, guv?"

He asked in a pleasantly accented voice. Dean smiled back a little tightly, fumbling in his pocket for his wallet.

"Hey. One room please; two single beds."

"Sure. Cash or credit?"

"Credit, here…"

"Thanks Mr…Ford." The man said, glancing down at the credit card, one of Dean's most recent 'acquisitions'. This time they were under the aliases of Robert Ford and his nephew Eddie. Sam hadn't been too pleased about that arrangement.

"Nice night, ain't it?"

He said sarcastically. Dean nodded darkly, shooting the overcast sky outside the misted window a sharp glare.

"Oh yeah. Peachy. Is it often like this around here?"

The man shook his head.

"Only recently. It's odd, y'know? We've had great weather these past few months, then suddenly…well, I'm sure it'll clear. Here's your key."

The man handed Dean a smartly varnished wooden plaque bearing the number three, with a large, old fashioned looking key attached. Dean smiled and nodded, catching his brother's elbow as he turned towards the door.

"Thanks. C'mon, Sammy."

Sam didn't bother to correct him, too busy tugging his thick pullover closer around him as they stepped once more out into the driving rain. They hurried over to the door which bore a large brass three, and Sam huddled close under the overhanging roof above while Dean fumbled with the key. There was a groaning creak followed by a sharp click, and Sam hurried inside as his brother shut the door. There was a moment of quiet as Dean locked the door behind them.

"So…did you call her?"

Dean slowly turned his head, and Sam struggled to keep his knowing smirk from surfacing, instead adopting an innocently curious expression. Dean frowned, then muttered gruffly:

"Call who?"

Sam rolled his eyes, throwing himself down onto the bed furthest from the door and resting his chin on an upturned palm, eyebrow raised.

"Cassie, you moron. What'd she say? She gonna meet up with you?"

Dean hesitated.

"Maybe."

"I'll take that as a yes. So, what's with you guys? You together or what? And what about the job…shouldn't we find out more about the guy who disappeared before sauntering off?"

Dean shot him an irritated look as he set about his usual routine of scouring the motel room. It was a habit of his, to stake out any place they spent more than twenty-four hours in.

"You're one to talk 'bout slacking off the job."

Dean slammed their Father's journal down on a nearby coffee table, eyes flitting warily around the length and breadth of the room as he reluctantly continued.

"But yeah. We're gonna meet. Not that it's any of you're business, nosy ass."

"Tonight?"

"Yeah."

Sam nodded, a little disgruntled, but already analysing the potential advantages presented by Dean having a night out. He automatically reached for the laptop as he thought of the true reason they had come here; their next job, missing people. Never found, but then again, maybe it was better that way. Some of the things which befell those people, at least in the Winchester's line of business, were better left buried. Sometimes literally.

"So, should I get on with some research? Look into local history, or whatever? Wasn't the disappearance closer to the next town?"

Dean glanced up from peering under his own bed, regarding his brother with a guarded, slightly hesitant look. He ran a hand through his hair and frowned.

"Well, yeah, but…uh…"

Sam smiled. Cassie was here; and although she and Dean had their problems, it seemed to Sam that Cassie gave Dean a momentary sense of peace. For some reason, he resented her for that. He didn't know whether Dean was actually serious with her, or whether she was just one of the more popular 'distractions' his brother indulged in. Either way, Dean needed a break. And with Sam constantly worrying him with these _bloody _visions…

Sam swallowed and forced an understanding smile, quashing the sickening rise of guilt which had been horribly potent since the incident in the Roosevelt Asylum.

"I get it, dude. So I'll stay here and let you…"

He managed a smirk, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

"Get some 'work' done."

Dean rolled his eyes and smacked his brother upside the head, but gently.

"You shut it. And, uh…you…stay here? Without…wait…oh fuck…"

Dean's eyes widened, and he pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning and muttering curses lowly to himself. Sam frowned, confused. Surely Dean had realized that Sam couldn't go with him? He felt a small stab of anger, mixed with that ever present surge of guilt. He was always such a burden.

"What? You didn't expect to take me along, did you? Cos that's a real turn off for any girl, Dean. Little brother's aren't the best known date accessory."

Sam said jokingly, attempting to make light of the situation and mask his musings. He sometimes wondered if he thought too much. Meanwhile, Dean sighed dejectedly, and muttered reluctantly:

"Well, I…hadn't…"

"Thought it through? Didn't think so. Hey, don't sweat it dude, I'll be fine. You've stayed the night before, didn't you?"

Sam said casually, swallowing slightly as he glanced out at the overcast sky outside. He had never liked storms, and…sad though it was, he had always felt as though it was only threatening if Dean wasn't there. He had spent many a night, when they were little, huddled underneath his brother's bed covers with Dean's steady breathing warding off the terror of the thunder outside. Even when they grew older, he had still leant against the side of his brother's bed and fallen asleep there. He always woke up huddled against Dean in the end, though.

That was before he left for college, though. Now…

"Yeah, but that was…"

Sam was wrenched from his musings by Dean's protesting voice.

"What?"

He asked, genuinely confused as to why Dean leaving was a problem for him. Surely he'd be glad to get away from his troublesome brother disturbing his sleep with nightmare's...Sam absently rubbed his temple at that thought.

"Before the…you know…"

"The what, the visions? God, Dean, give me a break! I can take care of myself for a few short hours. It'll be fine."

Dean raised an eyebrow and gestured towards where Sam was scrubbing at his temple as though to dispel an already oncoming ache, and Sam hastily dropped his hand.

"Don't look at me like that! In fact, I insist you go. In the name of your good health and my peace of mind."

Sam busied his hands with opening up the laptop, muttering to himself:

"God knows, maybe if you got laid you'd be less grumpy…"

Dean's head snapped around.

"You say something?"

"Nope. And you're going."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"You givin' me an order, Sammy?"

Sam allowed a lazy smile to creep across his lips, imitating his brother's own arrogant, devil-may-care expression.

"Yup."

Sam turned serious as Dean's face clouded over with indecision.

"Look, Dean. It's only one night, and I kinda feel bad for always, y'know, dragging you away from other stuff…not that I approve of your…uh…constant philandering…"

A lecherous grin spread across Dean's face.

"Getting laid, you mean?"

Sam rolled his eyes, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"Uh…yeah. Anyway. Seriously, man, you could use a break. And a few quiet hours to do some work'll do me good. Maybe I really will get an early night. So go. Please?"

Dean opened his mouth to reject the proposition, but faltered as his gaze met the imploring, dark eyed stare his brother was subjecting him to. Damn. Sam's puppy-dog look, the one, the _only _thing which could make Dean Winchester go against his better judgement. He didn't think Sam even knew when he was using it, either, which only made it harder to resist.

Dean sighed heavily, scowling. He didn't like this. Not at all.

"Jeez, alright. But only for your peace of mind."

"Oh, so the sex is an added bonus?"

Dean blinked once, twice, stared at his little brother's innocently smug expression, frowned, and then dramatically mock-reeled in shock.

"Samuel Winchester, brother of mine! I'm shocked at such…such…belligerence! Honestly. Such a dirty mind in one so young…"

Dean sighed melodramatically, throwing himself into a chair and clapping a hand to his forehead. He raised both hands up to the Heaven's and despairingly demanded:

"What is the world coming to?"

Sam sighed, shaking his head at his brother's antics. It was quite evident that the tremble in Dean's voice was from laughter rather than shock. Sam grabbed his brother by the elbow and steered him towards the bathroom.

"Whatever, man. Go get cleaned up. You don't want to smell like a car with a dead skunk in the boot…"

Dean pinned him with an accusing glower.

"You insultin' the honour of my baby impala, Sammy?"

Sam gave him a gentle shove, maintaining a smile which was half innocent, half amused.

"Course not, dear brother mine. Now go on."

Dean raised his hands in surrender, rolling his eyes and muttering darkly to himself as he closed the door behind him, his voice growing muffled.

"Going! Jeez. Kids these days…no respect for their elders…"

Sam paused for a moment beside the now closed bathroom door, the quiet of the room seeming suddenly imposing. Threatening. He swallowed, glancing around, noting how empty the room felt. He shook his head violently, grimacing. Get a grip, Sam. This is stupid. Dean's going out for one night. He'll be back in the morning.

_What if he's not?_

A little voice murmured uncertainly in the back of his mind. Sam growled, shoving his hands into his pockets, and made his way over to the window, gazing out, watching the raindrops form rivulets and patterns on the window pane. A distant, ominous peal of thunder made him shiver involuntarily, goose bumps rising up his arms.

"He will be. He's Dean, he always comes."

He murmured to himself. He flinched as a dull flash of lightning lit up the sky outside, the rain seeming to bear down even harder, driving faster, as though trying to beat the very earth below into submission.

"Looks like a storms coming…"

He had no idea just how true those words were.

**A/N: CASSIE WONT HAVE A MAJOR ROLE IN THIS FIC; she was really only a device to tempt Dean away from his top priority: SAMMY! Was that naughty of me? (hides) I'll state again, no slash. Just brotherly love.**

**Should I continue? Please review and let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: (SHOCKED) Wow! A huge thanks to everyone who reviewed, your encouragement means so much! All comments concerning British-isms were hugely appreciated, thanks everyone, keep it up! And an extra special thanks to Karategal for her essay on travel in the US and LC Brotherton for her background info! Thanks guys!**

**IMPORTANT(again): I do not write ANY Dean/OC or Mary-sues (shudders) Cassie was from the episode 'Route 666' for those who managed to miss it. I'm NOT a Dean/Cassie shipper (though I have nothing against her)…BUT she wont be around for long…(evil smirk) **

**Disclaimer: (grumbles) Well, last time I looked, I didn't own it. (looks again) And, what do you know! I still don't. (sulks)**

**Recap Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic**

**Well, on to chapter two…**

**2.**

**Fraternal Anxieties**

Dean grimaced, tugging his conventional shirt over his head as he emerged from the bathroom, usually carefully styled hair in disarray. Sam looked up from where he was seated on the bed, raising his eyebrow at Dean's disgruntled expression.

"What's up with you?"

He asked, and Dean planted one hand on his hip and jerked his thumb accusingly over his shoulder at the innocently oblivious room behind him.

"Haven't these people heard of the joy brought by a single clean towel…I'd give my right buttock just for one small, fluffy, sweet smelling lump of flannel! If you ask me-"

Dean continued to grumble animatedly to himself, but Sam wasn't listening. His eyes had treacherously slid once again over to the window and the world outside, which was now considerably darker than when Dean had entered the bathroom. A flash of lightning, and Sam flinched, and swallowed, eyes narrowing as he scanned the bleakness beyond the patterned window pane.

"Oi, Sammy! I'm sensing a certain lack of appreciation for my witty humour here."

One elephant, two elephant, three elephant, four-

"Sam! You with me, kiddo?"

And a peal of thunder. There. The storm was only four miles away now, maybe even less. A hand suddenly appeared in front of vision, and Sam blinked, and slowly raised his head to find an un-amused Dean looking at him quizzically.

"Hm? Oh. Yeah. Sorry. What'd you say?"

Dean gave him a once-over, then shook his head.

"Nevermind. You sure you're alright with this? Cos if you'd rather I-"

Sam shook his head vigorously, cutting his brother off mid-sentence.

"No! Dean, we've already discussed this. You're going, I'm staying, you'll come back in the morning. End of story."

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Sam's chest felt abruptly heavy as the full meaning of this situation began to sink in. Dean was _leaving. _Which he wasn't going to be _here, _wasn't going to be with Sam. He would be one place, Sam another, with miles of open space in between…

Dean shrugged and turned to the nearest mirror, running a hand through his hair to restore it to its usual ordered chaos. Sam mentally slapped himself as his thoughts continued to wander, then sighed. As though mirroring his feelings, the rain outside increased it's velocity even further, pounding down with heavy 'thwacks' onto the roof and the ground outside. Sam shivered.

"What was the forecast for tonight?"

Dean looked up, spared the window a withering glare, then turned to Sam.

"Weather's being a bitch, apparently. Heavy showers, thunder, lightning, the works. Not that I trust some whiny bloke in an anorak over the radio, but still. It's not gonna be pretty."

Sam nodded absently, shaking himself out of his momentary stupor and turning once more to the laptop beside him. Seeing that his search for 'missing persons, Missouri' had not come up with anything remotely significant, he glanced up at his brother, and blinked in surprise.

"Um…ok. Dude, you're not wearing that, are you?"

Dean was dressed in his trademark jeans, t-shirt, and his consecrated leather jacket. Perfectly acceptable in everyday life, of course, but not exactly…dressed-to-impress material, in Sam's opinion anyway.

Dean raised an eyebrow, looked down at himself, and narrowed his eyes at his skeptical little brother.

"Yeah. Why? Fashion Guru Sammy doesn't approve?"

Sam bit his lip, and tilted his head to the side, hand on his chin, then tilted the other way, looking Dean up and down. He wrinkled his nose.

"You must have worn that jacket for about three years without washing it! What was the point in having a shower if your clothes still smell of sulphur and sweat?"

Dean smirked and raised his forefinger in the air sagely.

"Pheromones, Sammy. Pure pheromones. It's part of this thing known as 'sex appeal'. You may have read about it in one of those geek Bible's; and let me tell ya, soapy and flowery ain't got anything to do with it."

Sam folded his arms across his chest, his lips twitching upwards as Dean puffed out his chest and stuck his nose in the air, looking condescendingly down at Sam.

"You do know pheromones are generally associated with dogs?"

Sam stated dryly, snickering as Dean blinked, then deflated and glared. This only served to make Sam snigger louder, however, and all Dean could do was huff indignantly and tap his foot impatiently.

"And what would you suggest I go in then, eh, soap boy? A tux and cufflinks?"

Sam shook his head, smiling wider at the thought of Dean in a tuxedo, and slid neatly off the bed, scouring the room for his brother's bag.

"Not quite. Hang on…"

Spotting it lurking under Dean's bed, Sam knelt down on the floor and dragged it out, fumbling with the zip and frowning thoughtfully as he reached inside. Dean's eyes widened, and he dived half across the bed, reaching over to snatch his brother's reaching hand away.

"Oh, no no no! What the hell! That's the equivalent of my top drawer, Sammy! You're breaking the taboo here, man!"

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's shocked, indignant expression and slapped Dean's arm out of the way, resuming his rifling through the bag; pulling out item after item, discarding some, placing others beside him on the floor.

"Shut the whining, it's only…what the-! Are these…"

Sam's eyes widened as he withdrew a pale pastel blue set of boxers. No, a baby blue set of boxers. A baby blue set of boxers with goggle-eyed, smiling, lurid yellow ducks on them. Dean yanked them out of his brother's hands, exclaiming:

"OI! Hands off my lucky boxers!"

Sam opened his mouth, closed it, then managed to splutter out through a suppressed fit if laughter:

"You have…_lucky boxers_?"

Dean glared imperiously, cheeks coloring, and hastily stuffed the offending boxers under his pillow.

"You don't survive this long against ghosties with a just lick and a prayer, y'know."

Sam blinked, staring from his brother's defensive stance, to the pillow, and back again.

"Dean…they've got yellow ducks on them!"

Dean stared at him neutrally, as though Sam was the one suffering from mental deficiency; after all, anyone who doesn't understand the embarrassing significance of small, cheerful yellow ducks cannot be in their right mind…

"And your point is?"

Sam choked, disbelieving.

"…but-they're yellow ducks!"

Dean remained unfazed. Sam growled, frustrated, and threw his hands up in the air.

"Oh, forget it. There's got to be something suitable in here…"

He muttered to himself, returning to the arduous task of updating his brother's fashion sense to beyond the 1970's. For the first time, a flicker of fear flitted across Dean's face as he leant over his brother's bent head.

"I've got a terrible feeling your idea of 'suitable' is wildly different from mine…"

Sam muttered something, before freezing, drawing something carefully out of the bag, and exclaiming:

"Aha!"

He shot upright just as Dean leant over to see what the commotion was about, and they cracked heads loudly. Dean cursed, rubbing his forehead darkly, while Sam reeled from the impact, blinking.

"…ow…"

Sam groaned, slightly woozy.

"…aha?…that doesn't sound good."

Dean grumbled brokenly, watching apprehensively as Sam retrieved the fallen item and held it up proudly before his horrified brother.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy! What are you trying to do, convert me to bloody abstinence?"

Sam raised an eyebrow, giving his brother a withering look.

"It's only a tie!"

And a rather nice one, at that, or so Sam thought. A deep forest green with navy fibers woven in so it appeared to be green and blue hued as the light caught it. However, Dean stared at it as though it were the devil incarnate himself.

"_Only _a tie! That _thing _is a physical embodiment of prejudiced societal parameters and the social constraints they entail!"

Silence. Sam blinked once. Twice. Frowned.

"Um…have you been reading the dictionary or something?"

Dean shot him a glare.

"Just what are you implying? Just cos I didn't do further education doesn't mean I can't bullshit posh talk, y'know."

Sam smiled, exasperated but amused, the darkness of the room somehow lifted. He could never feel angry or frustrated for long, not with Dean. With Dad, he could fume for days over an argument. With his brother, he usually forgot within minutes.

"Dean, you never cease to amaze me. Here, if you won't do the tie, at least change to a clean white vest, maybe with an open shirt on top? And pants **without **holes or grass stains. I refuse to be associated with a trend abomination. Please?"

Dean scowled at Sam's determined and hopeful expression, indecisive. Sam changed tack, carefully allowing his face to fall in disappointment, lowering his gaze sadly. Dean squirmed, cleared his throat, and Sam smiled internally. It never failed.

Dean sighed, and slumped in defeat.

"Will you leave me the hell alone if I do?"

Sam beamed, and leapt up, gathering together the appropriate clothes into a neat pile and presenting it like food on a platter before his bristling brother.

"Probably."

He said, cheerfully. Dean gritted his teeth, fully aware that he had once again fallen foul of Sammy's 'You just kicked a helpless puppy!' look.

"Alright, hand them over. Ugh. I'm gonna look like such a prude…"

Dean continued to mutter to himself as he changed into the designated outfit, and Sam turned back to the computer, smiling fondly. He remembered when Dad used to buy their clothes, when they were young. Dean had never, ever approved of anything Dad suggested; it was one of the few things he stood his ground on. Sam's smile widened at the memories, and he glanced at his watch. 9:27.

His smile faltered. Only a few more minutes, then Dean would be gone. The heavy weight settled somewhere in his chest dropped further, and he felt suddenly cold.

"Verdict, Sammy?"

Sam jerked out of his reverie, to find Dean standing in the middle of the room, glancing over his own shoulder with a disgruntled look on his face. Sam looked his brother over, nodding approvingly. Dean still looked very much like himself, just cleaner, neater. Almost like Dad.

"Nice. I could almost admit to being related to you now."

Dean rolled his eyes, tugging his shirt more comfortably around his shoulders.

"Bitch. You got the time?"

"Uh…yeah. It's almost nine thirty. When are you due there?"

Dean shrugged.

"There wasn't anything specific. Ten-ish, she said. I'll be back at…um…"

Dean gave his brother an unreadable look, and Sam hastily cut in before Dean could think twice about leaving. He couldn't hold Dean back. Not again.

"Don't worry, man. Come back anytime tomorrow, I'm cool. Really."

"Maybe I-"

"Don't start again."

Dean's eyes bored intensely into Sam's trying to gauge his true feelings. Sam kept his features perfectly still, but felt decidedly unsettled inside. Anytime tomorrow? That meant Dean could be gone for practically an entire day. Twenty four hours.

Dean looked away, appearing uneasy.

"All right, all right. I'll have my cell phone on me, like always, so if anything happens, anything, you call and I'll come right back."

He said, seriously, gazing steadily at his brother. Sam nodded.

"I'll keep that in mind."

He said, as casually as he could.

"Right. I gotta couple of minutes, then I'm off. Okay…so…"

Dean clambered down onto his knees, grabbed the bag he had brought from the trunk of the car, and began searching through it, occasionally pausing to take things out and place them beside him on the floor. Sam craned his neck, trying to see over his brother's broad shoulder, and frowned in confusion.

"Dean…what're you doing?"

Dean didn't bother to look up, but said sarcastically:

"Dancing the freakin' cha cha cha. I'm taking precautions, dumbass."

Sam moved over to him, picking up a discarded empty bottle and a half-full salt shaker as he knelt beside Dean.

"Rock salt? That'll be a pain to clean up tomorrow, why the sudden worry? We don't even know what we're dealing with yet, or even if we _are _dealing with anything."

Dean abruptly stood, and began systematically placing all their usual security measures up. Rock salt beside the doors and windows, cat's eye shells, holy water placed in easily reached places all around the room. Eventually, Dean paused, turned, and gave Sam a piercing look.

"I'm not taking chances. Not with you."

Sam bristled indignantly.

"I can take care of myself!"

Dean sighed quietly, and moved to sit down in front of Sam on the opposite bed. He pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a long breath before speaking; suddenly looking older and more tired than Sam had ever seen him. Worn.

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't mean you're invulnerable, Sammy. Just let me do this, okay? Or I'll be biting my nails all night long, and that ain't healthy."

He said, quietly, almost pleadingly, except Dean didn't plead. Not to anyone. Sam eyed his brother's slumped shoulders, feeling the acidic sting of guilt swell in the pit of his stomach, making him feel a little ill.

"If it's important to you."

He shrugged as coolly as he could, trying to avoid Dean's gaze. He wished he knew what Dean was thinking; he was always so defensive, so…introverted. And it was probably partly his own fault, Sam's fault. If he wasn't always so selfish, such a burden-

_**You **are important to me. _

Sam blinked, and frowned, shaking his head. Maybe he was more tired than he had thought. Meanwhile, he realized with a jolt, Dean was speaking aloud.

"Don't get too full of yourself. I just don't wanna end up cleaning the mess off my jacket if you get mauled or something during the night. That thing's vintage, man."

Sam smiled a little.

"Like its owner."

"You say something?"

"Nuh uh. Please continue your neurotic scurryings."

Dean whacked him gently on the shoulder.

"Smartass."

Sam grinned, watching Dean re-check all of his 'precautions'. He didn't think he'd ever seen Dean so cautious; especially when they weren't even sure what they were dealing with. It was annoying, but somehow, touching too. Sam grimaced, and almost groaned. If Dean could have heard that…well, safe to say there would be no need for precautions anymore.

"All done now, Nancy Drew?"

Sam joked. Dean, halfway through hanging a dream-catcher by the window, tied the last knot in the string before turning to regard his brother with a furrowed brow.

"This isn't funny, Sam. I'm serious. Don't get sloppy, and for God's sake, don't try to prove anything, alright?"

Sam, taken aback, turned to face Dean.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

He said, half accusing, half cautious. Dean cleared his throat uncomfortably, snatching his wallet up from the coffee table and glancing around for the room key.

"Nothing, only…uh…oh, forget it, man. Just…be careful. And _promise _to call if anything happens. Anything. Alright? Hunter's honor?"

Sam snorted, and folded his arms in protest.

"Dean, this is…"

Dean gave him a look which would make the devil himself hide under the bed sheets and check his closet, but Sam, used to Dean's moods, only sighed, grabbed their Father's journal and placed one hand on it and the other over his heart.

"Oh, fine. Hunter's honor, I won't do anything stupid. Not that I would anyway. It's not like I'm a little kid anymore."

_No, but you're still my little brother. And that's all that counts._

Sam winced as a sharp pain flared in his head, and he rubbed at his eyes. When he opened them, he found Dean standing in front of him, hand outstretched.

"Secret shake on it!"

Sam gave him an exasperated look.

"Dean, don't be silly."

"Sammy!"

Sam sighed, extended his own opposing hand and placing it back to back with Dean's, and linked his forefinger and little finger to Dean's own, curling the other two fingers inwards like a fist. They had invented the shake when they were very small, and Dean had said it was supposed to symbolize that they'd always watch each other's back, hence the hands being placed thus. Why Dean had suddenly decided to revive it after so many years, Sam didn't know.

"Fine, fine. Secret shake."

They shook firmly, up then down, before Dean withdrew his hand rather quickly. There was a pause, then Dean wiped his hand on his pants, grimacing.

"Ew, Sam cooties…"

Sam made a frustrated sound.

"You're the one who wanted – ugh, I give up! Fine, be weird. See if I care."

Dean smirked infuriatingly, and Sam turned back to his laptop, muttering darkly to himself. Dean completed one final round of the room, moving a single holy water bottle to the bedside table in easy reach of Sam.

"Ok, um…right, salt, cat's eye shells, um…holy water, yeah…various symbols, hm…maybe I should add a-"

This was taking paranoia a bridge too far for Sam.

"DEAN! For the love of all things sacred-"

"-and non-ghoulie-ghostie."

Dean said wisely, interrupting. Sam faltered, gave Dean and odd look, and continued.

"Uh…yeah, that too. What was I saying? Oh yeah. Please, Dean, just go. I'll be fine."

Dean hesitated, as Sam pushed the rising pang of – what, panic? Guilt? Regret? Fear? This was pathetic. Stupid. Ridiculous! Dean had to go; Dean was going to go, and Sam wasn't going to let his own selfish nature get in the way of that. His brother deserved this.

"You're sure?"

Dean asked, keeping his tone flat. Sam nodded.

"Yeah."

Silence.

"Alright then."

Dean fumbled in his pocket for the Impala's keys, avoiding Sam's gaze, and headed for the door. He paused at the end of Sam's bed, and Sam looked up from where he had been staring at the blank screen. Sam felt oddly cold.

"So, uh…like I said, take care of yourself. Ok?"

Sam nodded, mustering a smile.

"Yeah. You too."

Dean turned, then hesitated, and gave Sam an unreadable look. He bit his lip, and shifted his weight; Sam looked at him quizzically.

"I'll be back. Real soon tomorrow. Maybe even tonight if it goes pear-shaped, y'know?"

He said, sounding almost apologetic. Sam nodded, automatically swallowing at the lump in his throat. The room seemed suddenly to be growing far darker, the world outside seeming more oppressive than ever.

"Yeah."

Dean uncharacteristically clapped a gentle hand down on Sam's shoulder, gripping it briefly.

"Be safe, Sammy."

Sam blinked, and the door slammed, followed shortly with the jingle of keys and the soft, muffled thuds of retreating feet getting farther and farther away. Seconds passed. The soft ticks of the bedside clock, previously gone unnoticed, suddenly seemed aggravatingly loud. Flickering lights and shadows spiraled across the floor, and Sam subconsciously drew his feet up off the floor and onto the bed.

The familiar sound of the Impala engine sputtering to life sounded, and Sam looked up from where he had been studying the floorboards, automatically searching the bleak blackness outside for those two headlights. Then he started, realizing what he was doing, and turned his head abruptly away from the window.

Two blaring lights briefly illuminated the room, and Sam glanced around just in time to see the Impala turn the corner of the motel and pass out of sight. For a moment, he continued to stare at the point where it had disappeared.

"Dean…"

He muttered, before growling frustratedly at himself and violently pulling the laptop over to him. He winced as the sound of the keyboard as he typed seemed to rebound noisily around the room, and paused, raising his head.

The room seemed so much bigger, and darker, the shadows seeming to grow as he looked at them, pressing in, enveloping, choking. Sam pushed his hair out of his eyes, and rubbed at his temple, feeling a dull ache coming on. God, please. Not tonight. No more nightmares.

Especially without Dean here to chase the nighttime demons away.

He shivered, and folded further in on himself, a heavy cold seeming to settle over him, making his spine tingle. And as he sat, tired and weary in an empty motel room with rain pouring in grieving torrents beyond a frosted window, for the first time in his life…Samuel Winchester felt utterly alone.

**A/N: (feels sad) Aw, I actually feel sorry for Sammy! And Dean. He gets such a rough deal in the series, but I suppose it's for a good cause…Next chapter: Dean is faced with a terrible choice, and Sam faces his inner demons. Figuratively and literally. **

**YES, I remembered to say 'pants' not 'trousers'! (Feels proud) And it is a cell phone, right? . Damn it, this is hard…(sigh) again, if you spotted any errors, please review and let me know! Comments on the story would be appreciated, too!**

**Thanks for reading! Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Again, thanks to everyone for their encouraging reviews! I really wouldn't be able to write this fic without you guys. Sorry about the delay!**

**IMPORTANT: You know the deal. NO Dean/OC or Mary-sues, Cassie was from the episode 'Route 666'. I'm NOT a Dean/Cassie shipper (though I have nothing against her).**

**Disclaimer: Don't own any of this. Just half the first season on DVD and a few magazine cuttings (feels sad)**

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic**

**Time for chappy three! It turned out rather long...**

**3.**

**Alone and away**

After several long moments which felt like a lifetime, Sam swallowed heavily, cleared his throat, and squared his shoulders. His spine creaked in protest as he stretched it upwards, wincing, and he rubbed the back of his neck, rolling his chin down to rest on his chest. He sighed quietly, the sound echoing around the achingly empty room.

"Well, might as well get something done…"

He muttered to himself, feeling simultaneously better and worse as his own voice filled the darkest confines of the room. He hesitated, and flicked the lamp suspended above his head on with a soft snap and a hiss. The warm glow cast an almost comforting, enveloping circle of light around him like a protective charm, and he felt a little better.

He frowned as he turned at last to the gently pulsating glare of the computer screen, taking a moment to gather his scattered thoughts into a threaded pattern once again. Using one of their many fake ID's, this time for the law force, he managed to successfully by-pass the security measures installed to prevent access to police records. It was a good thing this ID had a real barcode number and name.

Bringing up a search screen after navigating his way languidly to citizen registration and records, he began narrowing the search down with practiced ease.

"Police records, or…hm…missing persons, can you search for…? Yes, missing persons, ok…missing persons…ah, here we are…crime related deaths, Cape Girardeau. This'll do…"

Sam investigated the results, finding it easier to murmur quietly to himself than to simply sit in silence. He really wasn't used to being by himself, at all. It wasn't that he had ever been clingy, really, he'd just always been with someone. Sometimes, in fact, most of the time, Dad, but almost always Dean. Even when he had gone to college, he had always preferred company to solitude. Realizing he was drifting, he dragged himself back to the task at hand.

"Suicide…nothing dodgy there, left a note…oh, here we go…Harold Todd. Wait, no. This is from the previous mystery around here, with that truck. Oh, this looks like maybe….Daniel Webber. Was driving home…yadda yadda…oh, that was solved, murderer caught. Damn. Ok…um…missing people, Missouri, maybe?"

The search came up with five results, one quite close to a town nearby, three of which stated to be the connected murders committed by a psycho who was now locked up in an asylum, and one which appeared quite promising; at roughly a close place and time to a previous missing person.

"Finally…same area as that other disappearance. Yes, a news report attachment, perfect! Now, let's see…"

Sam clicked on the highlighted link, which opened up a new webpage, displaying a newspaper cutting from an article. Sam squinted, staring hard at the picture within the cutting, to the right of the main body of text. It displayed what appeared to be a quiet backstreet, somewhere close to the countryside; at the forefront of the picture, two coroners, separated from a curious crowd by lurid yellow tape, carefully carrying a stretcher upon which was a black body bag. It wouldn't have been quite so gruesome if there hadn't been a blue hued, rigidly pale arm extended through a gap in the zipper of the body bag, hand clenched in a dementedly claw-like shape. Sam shuddered. The body bag itself was misshapen, to the point of which it didn't look like a human body was inside at all.

Sam tore his eyes away from the grotesque image to scan the actual text, a frown beginning to form on his features as he read:

_**Missouri teen supposedly 'scared to death'**_

_In the early hours of Tuesday 19th August, sixteen year old David McLudgeon was found dead in the quiet backstreets of Danville, Missouri. However, this turned out not to be the average teenage murder which is seen all over the country. Sheriff Charlie Bennett, who discovered the body, gives further details:_

'_The poor kid was curled up like some kind of demented creature…he was so rigid by the time we found him we could barely close his eyes. And they was open, wide open, staring right at ya. He had one hand over his face and the other stretched up towards the sky, clawing, y'know, like he was crying out for help the moment he died. His body was twisted about so terribly, he must have been writhing in terrible pain…and his face was all scrunched up in petrified terror. Horrible, I tell ya. But the most disturbing thing is, we can't find no cause of death. No cuts, no entry wounds, blood, even a bruise, nothing. It seemed like he just died of fright…'_

_It is to be understood that David left a friend's (Barry Lyeman) house at 11:00 am of the 18th, intending to walk the mere five blocks to his own home. However, when at 3:00 am the next day he had still not arrived, his worried family phoned Barry to inquire of their son. When Barry informed them that David had left the previous night, they immediately telephoned the police. David was found later that day by officers of the law, following a two hour search of his neighborhood._

_David suffered from severe claustrophobia, and so always took the least enclosed roads on his way home. It is strange, then, that the body was discovered in a very tight backstreet quite a way from his normal route. No witnesses have been found, and so no evidence suggests that the boy was taken on his way home and then dumped. The cause of death is still unknown, even following an extensive post-mortem by Doctor L.P Holland:_

'_There is absolutely no indication of any violence committed, nor is there a trace of toxins or any kind of poison in his system which could have triggered immediate death. The odd thing is, the body was found in a position which suggests the effects of 'rigor mortis' (Latin, meaning 'the stiffness of death') executed almost immediately following death. However, rigor mortis is historically known to take hours to cause the body to fully stiffen. The whole thing is quite perplexing._

Sam blinked, scrolling down, but the only useful information left in the article was a small note tagged on the end which stated that this particular case was never solved, no conclusion ever stated. Sam rolled his eyes, glancing once again up to the picture of the claw like hand, protruding awkwardly from the body bag.

"So basically, the police know about as much about these disappearances as Dean does about personal hygiene. Great. Fan-freakin'-tastic."

A sudden, booming crash of thunder which sounded far too close for comfort made Sam jump, and his snapped painfully around to stare, wide eyed, into the darkness beyond the lacey curtains at the window. The door rattled quietly in its hinges, and a low howl of wind swept across the road outside with a swell. It wasn't cold in the motel room, but Sam shivered, a long, crawling tingle which clawed up his spine and made him feel light headed. A feeling of emptiness filled his chest, and he snarled, digging his forehead with the heel of his upturned palm violently. He could feel a headache coming on.

"Focus, Sam. It's just raining, that's all. Just a storm. It can't hurt you."

Sam said conversationally, purposely looking anywhere but at the window, choosing instead to let his eyes become unfocused, gazing unseeing at the bed opposite his. Dean's bed. Although it wasn't really, because Dean wasn't on it, and therefore it couldn't really be termed his. Was anything owned, really? Or did it own itself? Did anyone even really own their own bodies? Why the hell was he asking himself these questions, in his head, and in the third person?

Sam growled in frustration, throwing himself onto his back, whacking his head violently against the headboard of the bed, groaning at the receding ache which was the result. He rested a hand over his stinging eyes, and scrubbed at them like a child.

"Oh, listen to me! I'm sitting here, talking to myself…this is so pathetic…if only Dean could see this, he'd-"

A deafening crack of thunder shook the room, and Sam cried out, jolting so hard he toppled off the bed, arms flailing, landing with a painful thud on the hard paneling below. A flash of lightning lit the room, and Sam flinched violently, ducking his head down.

There was a moment of silence, punctuated only by the now softer pattering of rain above and the distant whine of the wind. Sam slowly raised his head, rubbing his temple vigorously, groaning. He drew a deep breath, leant against the side of the bed, wincing at the ever building pressure in his head. He slammed a hand into the hardwood behind his back, furious with himself.

"Dammit, this is ridiculous!"

He had never been fond of storms. In fact, so his Father had told him, when he was younger he had been terrified of them. As an infant he had screamed the house down whenever the merest hint of thunder filled the air. After Mom died, there had been crying fits, sometimes lasting for hours after the storm had ended. He had usually slept in Dad's beds those nights, eventually falling into an exhausted sleep after a fitful night. But once the hunting started…once Dad started leaving them, in the nights, sometimes during the day too…his bed was empty and cold, with no encircling arms to hold him and no warmth to chase the thunder away.

That was when he had first started to turn to Dean instead of Dad. It had started small, asking for help reaching something too high up, slipping in beside his big brother when the first hints of rain began pounding the windows. Eventually, though…he relied on Dean so heavily it was like it was his brother who was raising him, not Dad.

And that wasn't fair.

-----------------------------

Standing on the corner of the main street in the town of Cape Girardeau, Cassie Robinson, clad in dark jeans and a jacket, raised an eyebrow. She eyed the approaching and very familiar silhouette with appraisal, the corners of her mouth curling upwards in what would have been a smile if her eyes had not remained so cold.

"Woah, Winchester. Did you dress up? Or am I just hallucinating?"

She said sarcastically. Dean stopped a few feet away, arm hanging loosely at his sides, and he leaned against a nearby railing casually. For a moment, the two eyed each other, like a cat would eye a trespasser on their territory; spoiling for a fight. After a moment, Dean smirked, and shrugged.

"Don't worry 'bout the hallucinating; it's quite normal for girls to do that around me. As for the dress-up…nah, not particularly."

Cassie looked him over once again, then startled him by leaning right over, placing a hand on his shoulder, and inhaling deeply. He gave her a wide-eyed look which quickly turned into a lecherous grin, before she pulled abruptly away, looking disbelieving.

"You even smell clean! Have you got a fashion assistant, or can ya just afford soap now?"

Dean's grin widened as Cassie leaned easily against the railing beside him, shrugging one shoulder unconcernedly.

"No fashion people, just my brother. Remember him? Freakishly tall, never smiles?"

Cassie's brow furrowed a little, and she pushed a stray curl from her face before answering carefully.

"You mean Sam, the baby-faced one? Yeah. Where is he, anyway? Lurking somewhere out of sight, no doubt."

She leant over, glancing around the street and up the road, as though expecting Sam to pop up at any moment. Dean, thrown off a little, tapped her on the shoulder while shoving his free hand into his pocket. His cell was still there.

"Uh, no. I left him back at the motel."

Cassie blinked, gave him a calculating stare, before saying slowly:

"Really? You did?"

She didn't sound convinced. Dean raised an eyebrow, shifting his weight onto his other leg as his left began to ache with the pressure. Standing with style really took it out of a limb.

"Yeah. Why wouldn't I? Anyway, isn't this supposed to be about us?"

An entirely un-Dean Winchester thing to say, he thought the moment the words had left his mouth. Too cliché. Then again, he always seemed to end up…different, when around Cassie. He let his defenses down, relaxed. Which was exactly why it didn't work out, supposedly. He wondered about that sometimes. Ironic that the one thing that kept him alive stopped him from living. Meanwhile, Cassie looked at him for a long moment, trying to read him.

"Or lack thereof, Winchester. But whatever. Lets get this done and see where it goes, hm?"

It was a flag of truce, and remember what he had come here to do, Dean pushed his meandering thoughts aside. Almost immediately following registering Cassie's words, his upstairs brain took over, and he smirked.

"Oh I can see where this goes, alright…"

Cassie smacked him, but lightly, and the smallest hint of a smile placed about her lips. When she spoke, she sounded on the verge of fond laughter, like everything was alright. Dean felt the slightest glimmer swell in his chest.

"You'll just never change, will ya, Dean?"

Dean grinned arrogantly, and glanced at his watch.

"Wasn't planning on it. We going or not?"

Cassie nodded, and took his arm, leading him up the street.

"Sure. I know a nice place; not too pricey, not too shabby, called 'Pagliai's Pizza & Pasta'. You like Italian?"

Dean shrugged, shivering suddenly. The night was cold, too cold for a light cotton shirt over a tee. Why the hell hadn't he brought his jacket, anyway?

"M'not bothered. Whatever you like."

-----------------------------

"Why is it so freakin' cold in here?"

Sam muttered mutinously, breaking off his train of thought with a shake of the head and yet another shiver. He was only wearing a light cotton shirt, and the room was growing colder with each passing moment. Or so he told himself. He glanced around the room, eyes lingering on the discarded bed sheet above him, before he dismissed that idea. Huddling under bed covers? That was just plain juvenile.

He didn't really own that many warm jackets himself; he was used to getting hand downs from Dean, from when he was younger, and so he felt more comfortable in sweaters which were several sizes too big for him than ones which actually fit. Since Jessica's death in the Summer, he hadn't really had time to address his wardrobe situation. Whenever they went out hunting, if it was cold, Sam just borrowed one of Dean's jackets. He didn't need to ask; and Dean never commented on it.

Sam grabbed his own bag, and rummaged hap-hazardously through it. Nothing. Only a couple of t-shirts, and a few sweaters with fleece material. He hated that kind of thing, hated the scratchy feel of it against his skin. He sighed resignedly, and dumped his bag beside him on the floor. He was shivering freely and uncontrollably now, light tremors, minor but just pronounced enough to be aggravating. Goosebumps rose up his arms, and he sat back, closing his eyes briefly.

"This is so stupid…"

Sam hesitated, sighed, and put let his hand fall limply from his aching temple to the floor, where it impacted with something smooth, and strangely warm. Confused, he opened his eyes and glanced down, to find Dean's favourite leather jacket resting almost expectantly, smugly, beneath his cold fingers. He picked it up, a small smile curling his lips, and tugged it round his shoulders. It was far too big for him, Dean being broad shouldered and stocky while he was slight and on the gangly side. He could almost see his brother's face now, raising an eyebrow at him. He sighed, and chuckled a little as Dean's voice filled his head, calling him a girl and a wimp. He didn't really mind. He inhaled sharply as a far off rumble of thunder sounded, and frowned as he realized he could smell something familiar…a coarse, peculiar smell of burning, of bitter sulphur mixed with smoke.

Oh, it was just the jacket.

Sam shook his head at himself; this was so utterly pathetic it bordered on cliché. He was supposed to be getting work done, not pining over a storm, for the love of God. He was a grown man, not some frightened little kid. Sam sighed, his shuddering slowly subsiding as the warmth of the leather encircling his shoulders seeped deep into his skin, making his toes tingle like he had pins and needles.

"If Dean could see me now, he'd…"

_He'd roll his eyes, tell me I'm being stupid, and chuck me his biggest, warmest sweater from his bag just to be safe, even while he's insulting my masculinity. Then he'd distract me from the storm, get me some hot chocolate with some excuse about not wanting to be up all night listening to me whining, and go all gruff and defensive. _

Sam rubbed his face tiredly, pushing all thought of his brother aside as he reached for the discarded laptop and set it on his lap.

"Enough. C'mon, pull yourself together, Winchester…other disappearances. Come on. Similar circumstances, same place, something…there's gotta be something…"

For the next fifty minutes, Sam worked in resolute silence, noting down any recurring themes or interesting facts on a notepad perched on his knee. Slowly, the list of notes became littered with arrows, crosses and ticks, small spider diagrams, bold lettering, crossed out words and phrases. Such were the joys of higher education…if you considered learning to read at all higher education. He found a few disappearances in concentrated areas, but nothing to suggest a specific hunting ground or haunting. There were no further cases with the symptoms David McLudgeon had suffered; only a few people who disappeared, and were found gibbering nonsense months later down some country lane. They all died within a year in mental asylums.

After almost an hour had passed, Sam set the notepad down, frowning, looking back over his notes to find he had made little progress.

"There's no connection…none of them related, same age, same gender…they're all completely different…and these all come from all over the place, so it's not a location thing…if its not haunting a place or a person, then…maybe it's not even a spirit…it's something else…"

Quite suddenly, there was a quiet hiss, and the entire room went completely dark. Sam's heart skipped a beat, before he noticed the computer screen in front of him had gone blank; a power cut. Not a spirit, not a demon, just a power cut. The storm was still raging a little ways off, so it was quite plausible. Nothing to worry about, just an inconvenience. Sam slammed the laptop lid shut and yawned widely, covering his mouth with his hand, muttering to himself.

"No use. I'll take the beauty sleep instead. Not like I'm gonna get anything done with…"

He slowly turned his head, looking at the window, at the smothering darkness outside. The only light left in the room was the clinical white glow of their alarm clock, on the bedside table. Sam levered himself up off the floor with a groan, and fell back onto the bed, automatically curling around himself for warmth. He tucked his head into the pillow, his nose resting on the smooth leather of the jacket's collar, head pounding dully. Within minutes he had slid into sleep, the now gentle pattering of rain outside lulling him and the familiar smell of the jacket around him comforting his wary mind.

In the now almost silent room, a soft tingle sounded; the dream catcher suspended before the window shook lightly, swaying to and fro gently in some invisible breeze, chimes suspended below it creating a tinny tune. The moon slid out from behind a cloud, bathing the empty room with searing rays, sending the silhouette of the circular wooden frame and stringed protective charms dancing across the floor.

Slowly, almost lovingly, the frame of the dream catcher began to buckle, the strings loosening, some fraying, though there was nothing there to wear them. For a moment, the limp and broken structure hung desperately to the string which attached it to the curtain rail, before it plummeted down, landing in a heap on the floor with a soft thump. In the quiet darkness, a soft, whispered voice sounded.

"_Sweet dreams, Sammy."_

And something laughed.

-----------------------------

The high street was dark, the cool night air refreshing with the merest hint of moist rain. It seemed he had left the thunderstorm behind, with Sam. Dean frowned. Sam hated thunderstorms; they gave him the shivers, though he would never admit it, not nowadays. With his mind drifting to his brother, Dean reached down to his pocket with the arm not looped with Cassie's, and withdrew his cell phone. Cassie leaned over.

"What'cha got there?"

"Nothin'. Just my cell."

Dean grunted, checking the display. No texts, no missed calls. Of course not, his cell was on and functioning, he would have noticed. What was he thinking?

"Checking for something? Darling brother dearest, hm?"

Dean looked up to find Cassie smiling knowingly at him, with something hidden in the depths of her eyes. Something bitter. He shook his head at her raised eyebrow, and hastily shoved his cell back into his pocket, banishing thoughts of Sam.

"Not specifically."

Cassie smiled bitterly.

"Evasive bastard, ain't ya, Dean?"

She stated, coolly. Dean smiled a little, eyes fixed ahead.

"I'd like to think so."

Cassie let out a frustrated sound somewhere between a growl and a snort, and grabbed his wrist, tugging him over to a nearby bench beneath a flickering streetlight. Considering, Dean thought idly, it was very Hollywood.

"Look…just…stop, for a second. Listen."

Cassie shoved him gently but insistently down on the bench, and lowered herself down beside him. She fixed him with a piercing stare, and he sub-consciously began to fiddle with the strap of his wrist watch. Nerves were a bitch.

"We broke up. I told you why, but…I don't think you really got me."

Dean frowned, meeting her gaze with an intense stare.

"What was there to get? You thought I was mad, dumped me, then when I prove I'm not you dump me, _again._ It's a good thing I'm dense, or I'd think you didn't like me."

Cassie smiled a little hysterically, and shook her head, curls flying about in a whirlwind. She sighed and pushed it from her eyes, considering her next words carefully.

"No, Dean. That…well, it was partly that, but…there was something else. You, you're just…"

She gestured feebly, evidently frustrated, and sank back against the cool metal of the bench, seeming suddenly tired. Dean took a long breath, and let it out slowly, leaning over and resting his elbow on his knees before meeting her gaze.

"What?"

He asked dejectedly. She sighed.

"After you told me, 'bout what you did, I did think it was just an excuse, y'know? An easy way out, pretend you're bonkers and throw them off. Then, last Winter, with the whole…deal and everything…I realized something else, too."

He said nothing, and she stumbled on uncertainly.

"Y'see, something else had been bugging me about you. Wherever you were, you were always…there, but only half. You had this distracted, guarded, far off look in your eyes that made me feel like you were staring straight through me. And you wouldn't share whatever it was with me, wouldn't share that world, that part of you, with me. And now I know, about that world, I know…I can't find a place there. Not if you won't let me in."

Dean drew in a deep breath, and rubbed his temple, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You've lost me."

He said, quietly. Cassie hesitated, and placed a tentative hand on his shoulder, fumbling over the next words.

"I need to know…for this to work, for there to be any chance, whatsoever…I need to know that you can let that world go. Because, if I can't be a part of it, then…at least I need to forge a new world, for just you and me."

Dean snorted, the walls slammed up. This was getting to personal, too quickly. Far too quickly.

"You sure all this philosophical crap isn't a little deep for you, princess ice-heart?"

He said dryly, and felt a stab of frustration when she refused to rise to the bait. Anger, rage, bitter sarcasm he could handle. They were safe; he knew how to deal with them. It was the way he did things. If you don't feel, you don't hurt. Except he did. All the time.

Every day, since the night Mom died.

Cassie was looking at him with an edged pity in her eyes.

"You don't get what I'm asking, are you?"

Dean sighed.

"No."

Cassie nodded, and swallowed, then tried again, moving a little closer to him. He tensed.

"For us to have a chance…prove to me that you can let me in, and forget that part of you, the part that just wants to turn and run. Because I know you could do it, but you don't want to. And yet you do, or you wouldn't be here. Right?"

Dean thought for a long moment, mulling over the words. It was true. Most of the time, he did shut the world out. 'The world turns it back on you, you turn your back on the world' and all that hakuna matata shit.

"I…think I understand."

Cassie smiled, rubbed his shoulder with a slender hand.

"Then let that world go; just for tonight. Or there's no hope for us; not anymore."

Straight and to the point, not sappy, somehow, though from anyone else they would sound so. Dean remembered why he had told her of his true life; she made him feel safe. Always. Like he had found that sense of belonging, of home, that he insisted he detested.

"Alright, but…"

He laughed a little stiffly, the cocky smirk feeling foreign to his lips.

"…I don't now what you want me to do to do that, princess."

She rolled her eyes.

"Cassie. Couldn't you call me Cassie?"

Dean nodded slowly, eyes roving over her face, trying to read her. He couldn't. But she couldn't read him, or so he had thought. Now he wasn't so sure. It was scary how women seemed to see through men like they were transparent.

"Ok. Cassie. What do you want me to do, to prove to you that this can work?"

Cassie hesitated.

"Let it go. Let it _all _go."

Dean gave her a blank look. She sighed, and reached over his lap to his pocket, slowly withdrawing his cell phone. Dean's mind drew a blank, confusion clouding his mind. Cassie held up the cell, and flipped it idly open, glancing briefly at it before saying heavily:

"All of it."

Dean felt as though someone had just dumped a bucket of ice cold water over his head.

_Sam. She means Sammy._

He blinked, looking from the cell, to her neutral features; she betrayed nothing. He drew a breath, ducked his head, rubbed his eyes. He felt tired. So very tired.

"Cass-"

She made a cutting gesture with her hand, interrupting him.

"No. None of that. It's all or nothing, Winchester. How can you possibly expect to love me when half your heart is already taken?"

It wasn't like that; not at all. She didn't understand. All factors entered into the equation in Dean's world; his own life, the lives of the people he saved, what he was prepared to sacrifice, to lose, for the greater good. All factors, everything…except Sam. His little brother…he wasn't part of the 'fate, draw a straw and cross your fingers' polls. To lose Sam, Dean would have to first lose himself.

Dean licked his lips, trying to form the words.

"Cassie. He's my _family_. He and Dad, they're all I-"

He hesitated, stumbled, drew together his courage.

"They're all I have."

Cassie looked at him, and for a long time, there was silence. She let her hand fall from his shoulder, eyes downcast, and her shoulders slumped in seeming defeat. He looked at her, but before he could speak, she broke the silence with a quiet, despairing voice.

"If you don't turn off that cell phone, Dean…they will be. Listen. I don't want to do this to you, any more than you want to do it, but…I need to know. Please. I can't take one more disappointment, one more 'sorry, honey, something came up.' Turn it off."

Dean froze.

"I…"

He swallowed. Cassie gave him a pleading look, dark eyes wide, begging. Dean felt cold panic rise in his chest, and as though she could feel it, Cassie placed a hand over his heart, smiling shakily.

"Dean. _Please_. Just turn it off…and leave it off. Just for tonight. What harm could it possibly do?"

That was a very difficult question to answer; but Dean couldn't make this choice. Not yet. He couldn't choose between his family, between _Sam_, his brother, and the last shred of the life he had had before that fateful night in Lawrence, Kansas, all those years ago. But…what harm could it do? It wasn't like he was even promising anything; just leaving Sam without his whine line for a few hours. And this was important; at least to him. He could think more, maybe even make a decision, sometime later.

Little did he know, by the end of that night, that choice would already be made; and as Dean slowly reached for the power button in the upper left hand corner, he briefly wondered whether he was making a terrible mistake.

He was.

**A/N: Dun, dun, DUN! Don't we all love cliffhangers? (ducks various sharp projectiles) Guess not…if anyone has any theories about that article, I'd love to hear them; see if anyone has figured it out yet!**

**I SAY AGAIN, CASSIE WILL NOT HAVE A MAJOR ROLE.**

**Next chapter: Sam finds trouble…or does trouble find Sam? And Dean is not-so-blissfully oblivious.**

**As ever, comments and corrections are welcome, so please review and make a sad little girl happy! Thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Woah! A brilliant response from the last chapter! Thanks so much to all who reviewed. I get the impression that nobody likes Cassie…(smiles innocently) wonder why that is, then? **

**IMPORTANT: NO Dean/OC or Mary-sues, Cassie was from the episode 'Route 666', only a smidgeon of Dean/Cassie (grits teeth) **

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, season two would be out, and the Impala would be MINE (drools) **

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic **

**TO MEGAN: A Mary-sue is an original character inserted into a story with the sole purpose of shamelessly wooing a main character. They are usually badly developed, ridiculously perfect, and have stupid names like 'Ophelia-Arwen'. Sometimes Mary-sue's are believable, well developed, and even well written, but not often. I hope that answers your question! **

**And without further ado, chapter four… **

**4. **

**Lollypops and Candy Canes **

Sam's vision was blurred at the edges; yet his eyes were closed. A sharp pain, a blinding light, his stomach flipping inside out as he suddenly felt as though he was flying. He could feel his face scrunching up, wincing, but it felt odd, like he didn't fit inside his own skin. Slowly, his vision cleared, shapes sliding languidly into focus. He couldn't blink, couldn't speak; all he could do was see.

He was in a car. It was dark. Leather seats, old cassette player, softly reciting the lyrics of a familiar tune. A song he knew…from a while ago. From long car journeys spent drifting between sleep and half-consciousness. For a moment, he simply stared at the cassette player, letting the familiarity wash away the blind panic threatening to surface.

_A long time ago came a man on a track  
Walking thirty miles with a pack on his back  
And he put down his load where he thought it was the best  
Made a home in the wilderness _

Telegraph Road. That was what it was called, the song; Telegraph Road. One of Dad's favourites, which Dean played occasionally. Only when he was feeling down, though. A cold spread in his gut. He wasn't just in any car. There was no mistaking the dark panelling and gentle humming of a classic muscle engine.

_He built a cabin and a winter store  
And he ploughed up the ground by the cold lake shore  
And the other travellers came riding down the track  
And they never went further, no, they never went back _

The Impala. He was in the Impala. His vision turned, though his head did not, to look to the driver's seat. Dean. Dark shadows played across his brother's face, which was strangely out of focus, like he couldn't quite make out those distinct features he knew so well. Dean had his lips pursed tightly, eyes staring hard and unblinking at the road ahead.

_And the birds up on the wires and the telegraph poles  
They can always fly away from this rain and this cold  
You can hear them singing out their telegraph code  
All the way down the telegraph road_

He was drawing away. Moving back, away from Dean, out through the window splattered with rain and out into the cold night air, and suddenly his gaze swayed, to, fro, back to the Impala, then lazily swivelled to focus on a side road which led onto the road the Impala was racing down. A large truck, rusty and creaking, engine sputtering, but nevertheless speeding along very fast.

Too fast.

He seemed to swoop down, down, until he was level with the windows of the truck. Glancing inside, he saw that there was nobody inside. No hands at the wheel; it wasn't even moving. The main road loomed ahead, and the sound of the Impala drew closer, louder, time seeming to slow impossibly.

_'Cos I've run every red light on memory lane  
I've seen desperation explode into flames _

**_No. Oh, God, no. _**

If he had had a mouth, he would have screamed, or cried out a futile warning, anything. But he could only watch, as the truck careened onto the main road, colliding with the Impala with a deafening explosion of metal on metal. Gasoline leaked in rivulets from the crumpled wreck which was the back of the Impala.

_And I don't want to see it again. . . _

The Impala with Dean still in it.

**_NO!_**

He flung himself forwards, or pushed his vision onwards, he didn't much care. Blinding, choking panic filled his disembodied chest, quelled as a harsh coughing sounded, followed by the sight of a familiar, grime streaked face appearing up over the lip of the now immobile car. Dean shook his head violently, eyes wide, and swore violently. Somewhere far away, Sam's lips curled in a relieved smile.

Then it fell.

As Dean stumbled from the wreckage, swaying lopsidedly, limping a little, a dark shadow flitted across the edges of his vision. He tried to turn to look at it, but the moment he caught sight of the flicker, it jumped skittishly away. Dean had lowered himself painfully to his knees in the middle of the road, still cursing, while the crumpled cassette player somehow continued its broken tune.

_…from all of these signs saying sorry but we're closed _

He could see it now. A tall shadow, moving slowly, deliberately, almost calmly, towards the wreck. It passed by the Impala, pausing briefly, and he caught sight of a fleeting glint of metal in the starlight above. The clouds had parted, revealing the never ending bowl of the inky black sky.

Dean hadn't seen it.

**_Dean! _**

But he had no lips to voice his words, no hands to somehow ward the creature away. He watched, helpless, heart pounding frantically in his body somewhere back in the motel room.

The figure raised a curved, gleaming blade of metal, brought it carefully to poise just beside the exposed skin of Dean's neck, just outside his brother's line of vision. Dean was bent over, hands on his knees, shaking, drawing deep, heaving breaths.

**_Get away from him! DEAN! _**

The blade was drawn back, the soft, gravely tones reciting the final words of the song from the cassette player.

_All the way… _

**_DEAN! _**

The blade slit clean through the tender flesh of Dean's neck, violent spouts of crimson life fluid rising high through the air and spattering the bonnet of the Impala with dark blood.

_…down the telegraph road… _

A blinding whiteness, unbearable pain, and Samuel Winchester shot bolt upright in the now pitch black motel room; screaming his brother's name until his throat was raw. He choked, gulping in cool air, feeling his stomach turn. He saw again, a sharp blade, Dean's neck split open, blood spilling in rivulets through the indented paving of the road.

Sam doubled over himself, dry heaves wracking his shuddering frame. He kept his mouth clamped tightly shut, swallowing the urge to vomit as bile rose in his sore throat. He gritted his teeth and clenched his eyes tightly shut, breathing sharply and rapidly through his nose.

After a long moment, he slowly uncurled himself, still breathing heavily. A dream. Only a dream…but…the blinding pain, the moment of stark white…he knew this routine well. Not just a dream.

A premonition.

A premonition of Dean's death.

Panic blanking out all further thought, Sam acted on pure adrenaline powered instinct, and threw himself off the bed, falling awkwardly to the floor as his unstable legs refused to sustain his weight. His head was spinning, the receding pain of the vision becoming a dull ache once again. He fumbled in the darkness to the bedside table. His cell phone. Where the hell was it!

His fingers scrambled over cold metal and plastic, and he pulled himself up onto his knees while forcing his trembling fingertips to flip the contraption violently open. Dean. He had to warn Dean. He selected Dean's name on the existing numbers list, swallowing thickly, taking deep, calming breaths. He had time. There was always time. Dean wasn't far away.

But he was still too far for comfort.

He held his cell tightly against the side of his head, pressing down, trying to quell the shake in his hand as he rubbed the other hand over his aching face. Pull yourself together. Come on. You've done this before; no time for hysterics. Dean will pick up, tell you you're an idiot, you'll explain, he'll bitch about some bastard smashing up his beloved car.

The dial had been ringing for a while. A long while. Too long. Dean always picked up practically immediately; at least for Sam. He always had. He only ever had to wait as long as it took Dean to check who was calling. It was taking too long. What the hell? Dean, pick up, damn it…

A small mechanical beep sounded, and Sam felt cold dread fill his chest as Dean's recorded message filled his ears:

Greetings, you're unfortunate enough to not have reached Dean Winchester. But never fret, because you can leave a message after the piss-ass cheerful beep and only have to wait a few more agonising hours before I get back to you. Thank ye kindly.

The beep sounded. Sam took a deep breath, drew his wits together.

"Hey, uh, Dean-"

His voice was shaking. Furious with himself, he cleared his throat and tried again, managing to calm himself a little as he spoke.

"-um, you said you'd leave your cell on, but…I guess you just got involved and left it lying about, huh? At least, I hope you did, and you're not…"

Sam swallowed. Don't panic. Come on.

"Anyway, if you could just call back and let me know sometime…soon…that'd be great. And you can bitch about it to me later, ok? Just…"

Sam tried not to think about the fact that, according to his vision, Dean would never bitch at him again if he didn't get the warning through. He drew a deep breath.

"Look, I had a…vision…a premonition, I think, and…you…well, you died. Car crash on your way home, so if you get this, just…be careful. Ok. So, um…yeah. Ring back if you can. Sorry, man. I'll see you tomorrow…"

Sam snapped his cell phone shut sharply, and sat still for a moment. God, he hoped he would see Dean tomorrow. But…he was probably fine. Dean would kick his ass tomorrow for being such a wuss. He was probably so 'busy' with Cassie (in the physical sense) he had forgotten about the cell. But still…

No. Dean wouldn't do that. Sam wasn't arrogant, but he knew Dean wouldn't break a promise to him, if he could help it. He knew through that childlike, endlessly trusting instinct which still remained from his younger days. Which meant that there was something wrong. Something terribly wrong. Sam closed his eyes tightly, clasping his hands painfully tight.

"God…please, Dean, be okay…"

He whispered, feeling his heart beat slam painfully against his chest. He shuddered. All he could do, for now, was wait.

_-----------------------------_

Dean blinked, and shook his head. Odd. He could have sworn he heard…no. that was crazy. Then again, so was the stuff which made his life what it was. Dean glanced across the restaurant to where Cassie was asking for a table for two, and his hand twitched towards his pocket.

No. He couldn't.

"This way, Sir, Ma'am."

Said a smiling waitress, dressed in a red checkered apron and a plain shirt. She led them both over to a table by a window, looking out onto the street. It was a pleasant place, lit with the warm glow of candles, spacious with bright red colour schemes which were somehow unassuming. Dean muttered a thanks as the waitress handed them each a menu, they ordered drinks, and she scurried away.

Cassie shed her jacket, placed it over the back of her chair, and turned to give him a small smile. He returned it, a little tightly.

"So, Dean."

Cassie leant her elbows carefully on the table, taking a sip of the water already placed in the middle.

"What've you been up to, since we last met?"

Dean shrugged, leant back languidly in his chair.

"The usual. For us, I mean. We haven't found Dad yet; he's an elusive bastard. Doesn't even pick up the phone."

Cassie frowned.

"I thought you were following a trail? He'd send you co-ordinates or something?"

Dean nodded.

"Well, yeah, at first. Then it just…went cold. So we started taking the initiative; y'know checking the net and local papers for strange happenings."

Cassie nodded absently, leaning her chin on her hand, looking at Dean intensely, a frown furrowing her brow. Dean raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"What?"

Cassie bit her lip, trying to find the words.

"Was there ever a time…when your life wasn't ruled by this whole…gig. Y'know, after your Mom died?"

Dean immediately tensed, preparing himself. It was going to be a very long night.

-----------------------------

A car door slammed somewhere outside in the parking lot, and Sam jerked violently in response, breath hitching. He swallowed, and tried to calm his pounding heart. He was way too on edge. If he kept this up much longer, he'd end up with a premature heart attack or something, like the one Dean had the time he was electrocuted. Yeah. Because that thought really helped him to stop worrying.

The lights flickered for a split second, and Sam blinked, then his eyes narrowed. They had been continuously doing that for about ten minutes now. He didn't need to check Dad's journal to know that it was signs of supernatural entities; or it could be that the storm was screwing with the electric cables.

Maybe he was just paranoid.

The door suddenly rattled violently in its frame, creating a sequenced, repetitive sound that almost resembled a knock. Sam reached as casually as he could for the nearest bottle of holy water Dean had left lying about. He'd sooner be a paranoid idiot than a laid-back corpse. He stood up quietly, wincing as the bed springs creaked, and padded softly across the room to Dean's weapon bag.

The moment he leant down and touched the zipper, all hell broke loose. Sam flung himself down on the floor as the windows shattered, the beds began to shake uncontrollably, and the lights died with a sudden and final hiss. Sam's fingers hovered above the bag as a ringing silence fell, the sounds of the storm outside louder thanks to the broken windows. Rain began to get in, soaking the curtains a spattered dark. Sam slowly withdrew his hand from the bag, and stood, making his way carefully across the strewn glass on the floor and back to the bedside table.

He snatched up his cell with one hand, while keeping the other holding the holy water threateningly aloft. At least it would slow down…whatever the hell it was. Damn it, he didn't need this. He flipped open the phone, his forefinger automatically reaching to dial Dean's number.

Then he hesitated.

He had seen something out of the corner of his eye; a dark, fleeting shape, flash across the empty shell of the window outside. He had heard something too; a very quiet noise, almost like a hiss, but different. He looked slowly from the phone, to the window, to the sleeting rain outside.

"Ok; situation. Alternatives. Decision. Action."

He muttered to himself; it was a phrase Dad had drilled into them, a systematic mind manipulation phrase. If panic started to rise, he had said, just follow the instructions. Ok, Sam thought, and did just that.

"Situation: I am currently in a motel room with something more than likely coming to get me, and am quite probably going to die a horrible, painful death if I stay here. Dean is quite possibly going to die very, very soon and I can't get to him by cell. Primary alternative: stay here and fend off said unidentified thing and get mauled. Secondary alternative: risk leaving and try to get hold of Dean some other way."

Sam stood very still, breathing harshly, his breath steaming in condensed smoke due to the cold soaking into the room from the outside. The safest choice for him was to stay here and try his very best not to get murdered by whatever it was that was out there. That was the safest choice.

But it didn't mean it was the right one. Dean was going to die. Maybe he was on his way to dying at this very moment; maybe the reason he wasn't answering his cell was because he couldn't. maybe he was already-

Sam mentally slapped himself and speed dialed Dean's number. Cover all possible bases; Dad's second rule. Maybe, if they both got through this, he should propose to Dean that they should invest in a carrier pigeon system. It might be more reliable during storms. And why did his brain always spout crap during high pressure situations?

Dean's infuriating answer phone kicked in, and Sam licked his dry lips, eyes roving around the now quiet motel room. Something was watching him. He could feel it. He kept his voice as quiet as he could, moving to stand in a corner with holy water held ready as he spoke.

"Dean…maybe I'm wasting my fucking time but what the hell. Something odd is going on here; the motel room got trashed. Typical signs of any haunting, y'know, smashed glass, flickering lights, the works. Yeah. Point is…"

He glanced warily out of the window. But no shadows loomed outside, no gleam of drawn metal. It seemed as though whatever had come had gone. But that didn't mean that it had. Sam faltered, then continued, speaking hurriedly in hushed tones.

"Point is something's around and it's trying to kill both of us. And if it's already got you then…not much point in me blabbering like an idiot anymore. But if it hasn't, it's going to. So…uh…I'm coming. Oh yeah; I'm gonna wear your favourite jacket out in the rain because it's the most likely one to stop a knife. If you wanna bitch about it, save it, man."

Sam smiled bitterly. Laugh in the face of death; laugh in the face of everything. Because if you didn't laugh, you had to cry instead. And that hurt more. Sam let his hand fall away from his face, slumping bonelessly against the wall.

"No-one is going to die tonight."

He murmured, and snapped the cell shut. He dragged Dean's coat closer around him, and grabbed the weapons bag from the floor, breathing a sigh of relief when nothing happened as he did so. He hastily selected a small gun loaded with silver wrought bullets; a literal stab in the dark, but it just might help. He straightened up, bag swung over his shoulder, and pushed the door shakily open. For a long moment, he stood on the threshold, rain already streaming down wet, curling bangs and into his eyes.

He shuddered as he remembered the exposed flesh of Dean's neck, the flash of metal upon skin and hot, stark blood; the image was scorching a searing, gaping hole in his mind. He shuddered, and stiffened, raising his head to stare challengingly out at the darkness.

"No-one is going to die tonight."

He stated loudly and firmly to the empty night, glaring around. He took a long, deep breath, and stepped out into the pounding downpour, head bent low against the rain and hand clasped tightly around the gun in Dean's jacket. Overhead, the storm clouds began to gather once again.

He was wrong.

-----------------------------

Dean shifted uncomfortably, finding the tablecloth extremely interesting all of a sudden. He breathed sharply through his nose; stay cool. You can do this. This is what she wanted; to talk. So talk.

"Well, uh…no, not really. There were…brief moments, y'know, if we settled in one place for a while then I'd start to…relax, feel a bit more…"

He almost had to force the word out.

"…normal, but back then, I didn't really want to be normal. Even if I got comfortable at school, which I didn't usually, because we seemed to magnetically attract trouble…I was always thinking about where Dad was; what was he doing, had he got rid of God knows what yet. It never really stopped."

Cassie smiled, and nodded, seeming to absorb the information. A waitress came over with a small notepad, smiling pleasantly. Realizing they hadn't decided what they were going to eat yet, they hastily looked over the menu. Dean was quite glad for the break in the conversation; if it could be called that. More like interrogation.

"What'll it be?"

Cassie glanced at Dean, but he nodded for her to go first.

"Ladies first. Or…uh…beauty before age. Nope. That doesn't work either…age before beauty? Nuh uh. Ok. I'll settle for 'You go first'."

She grinned, recognizing the supposedly 'playful' banter, and retaliated.

"You look older than me, Winchester, and that's what counts. Ok, uh…I'll have the 'Penne a polo' with a side order of Caesar salad, please. And another spring water."

Dean ordered his food too, and the waitress left, giving them an odd look over her shoulder. She probably had good reason to, considering Cassie was smacking Dean upside the head with a napkin at the time.

"That was low, Deanie-boy."

Dean grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

"Below the belt, you mean?"

She whacked him again, then seemed to sober. Dean's heart sank. He had hoped they had got off the subject of his life. Or lack thereof.

"There were several things wrong with what you said back there."

Dean kept his face neutral.

"Enlighten me."

He said evenly. She shifted a little, crossed her legs, and studied him for a moment before speaking.

"You said 'back then' you didn't want to be normal; implying possible conflict currently. And you seem to always use the term 'we'. Never 'I'. Always 'we', or 'us'. This may seem like a stupid question, you being an arrogant prick and all…"

Dean snorted, but he smirked nonetheless as she gave him a smile in return and continued.

"But do you ever think of yourself? Properly of yourself? What might have been best for you? How it could have been different? Can be different?"

He looked at her. He didn't often have time to think about anything much; no time for reflection when you've got something creepy on your butt. Just survival instincts; keep Sam safe, find Dad, kill anything that gets in the God damn way of the first two. But that was a purpose, something to live for. He was afraid that if he ever stopped to truly think about it, he would find that his life was nothing more than living for others. No, he knew that. He just didn't dwell on it.

"It's not about what's best for me."

He said quietly, feeling the weight of his cell in his pocket. What the hell was he doing, following this…dream that he could break the rules just this once? It didn't work like that; if he got something for this life, he lost something in the other. That was the way it was. He had made this mistake before, twice, made this same choice, twice. Why should his decision be any different now? Why did he even come here?

"You don't know."

Dean blinked, dragged back to the present by Cassie's quiet statement.

"What?"

He asked, bluntly. She tilted her head to the side, her expression unreadable. Dean suddenly felt as though he was a very small child being explained something by a patient adult. He bristled. But she was the only person to ever have bothered to ask. Who had ever…well, cared. Or had seemed to. His family, they were a granted…but he couldn't talk to them.

"You don't know what it's about, do you?"

Dean looked away. No; he wasn't entirely sure what it was about. He didn't know why people committed evil. He didn't know why announcing the Lord's name had the sheer power to eradicate something from this earth, yet his own prayers were never answered. He didn't know why his Mother burned to death with her abdomen sliced open. But it wasn't about knowing; it was about learning to feel alive. Whatever life was, or was supposed to be.

"Nobody does."

He said simply, by way of an answer. They stared each other down, each trying to fathom what the other was truly thinking, or feeling. Neither succeeded.

"I gotta take a leak."

Dean stood abruptly, glanced about, and turned towards a sign which proclaimed 'WC' then an arrow pointing right. He stopped in his tracks as he felt a cool hand close around his wrist, and he glanced down at it, then up at Cassie. She raised en eyebrow.

"The cell?"

She gestured to the innocent pocket under her scrutiny. Dean felt his heart go cold, then steeled himself. He had been through this, over and over in his mind. Turn it on, leave it, turn it on, leave it. He wouldn't decided; not yet. He couldn't. So he drew up his defenses, and smirked with practiced ease.

"What, you don't trust me?"

She didn't smile.

"No."

She said, flatly.

"Smart girl."

He yielded, slamming the cell down on the table with a little more force than was necessary. His hand lingered on it, and he hesitated, then drew his hand away with a significant look at Cassie. She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and he shook his head exasperatedly, holding his hands up in sarcastic defense as he threaded his way through the tables and chairs to the bathroom.

Once the door to the WC had closed shut behind the broad back with a groaning squeal of old hinges, Cassie smiled, and looked down at the small device on the table beside her hand. Without so much as a small glance, just to make sure, she picked it up and flipped it open with a sharp flick of the wrist. She turned it on and smirked a little as she easily entered the number sequence to unlock it; she had seen him turn it on before, and had memorized it.

"Let's see what you're really fighting for, Dean."

She murmured, navigating her way quickly through the sub-menus to missed calls and messages. A bright little window indicated two missed calls, one fifteen minutes ago, one five. Both entitled 'Sammy'.

She hesitated as her finger hovered above the button with which she could access them. Surely there was another way; a slower, kinder way. She wanted to help him; she truly did. It was what had attracted her to him in the first place. She had seen something burning in his eyes; a passion, coupled with a deep hurt. She had wanted to understand both.

So far, she had had little success. Yes. This was the only way to truly help. Re-assured, she placed the cell beside her ear with no further qualms and listened intently. The quiet, slightly shaky tones of Samuel Winchester sounded in her ear.

_"Hey, uh, Dean-um, you said you'd leave your cell on, but…I guess you just got involved and left it lying about, huh? At least, I hope you did, and you're not…" _

There was a pause, and Cassie could hear an intake of breath on the recording.

_"Anyway, if you could just call back and let me know sometime…soon…that'd be great. And you can bitch about it to me later, ok? Just…look, I had a…vision…a premonition, I think, and…you…well, you died. Car crash on your way home, so if you get this, just…be careful. Ok. So, um…yeah. Ring back if you can. Sorry, man. I'll see you tomorrow…" _

It cut off, and Cassie tossed a quick glance across the restaurant. Not finding Dean there, she felt a conflict of emotions rise. Frustration, and slight disappointment. Vision? What the hell? Maybe Sam Winchester was a nutcase; maybe that was why Dean was so protective. Pity. But she had met him…and he had seemed perfectly sane then. She shrugged a little, selecting the second message, keeping her eyes trained on the WC door across the room as she listened.

_"Dean…maybe I'm wasting my fucking time but what the hell. Something odd is going on here; the motel room got trashed. Typical signs of any haunting, y'know, smashed glass, flickering lights, the works. Yeah. Point is…" _

Cassie raised both eyebrows. She barely understood the kid; he was speaking very fast, sounding panicked, and all she could make out was some gibberish about smashed glass and the motel room getting trashed. This was an emergency call? Because he broke a lamp or something?

_"Point is something's around and it's trying to kill both of us. And if it's already got you then…not much point in me blabbering like an idiot anymore. But if it hasn't, it's going to. So…uh…I'm coming. Oh yeah; I'm gonna wear your favourite jacket out in the rain because it's the most likely one to stop a knife. If you wanna bitch about it, save it, man." _

There was a long pause, a whisper of something intelligible, and then the message ended. Cassie stared down at the screen, torn, not sure what to think. Sure, she knew they dealt with supernatural things; she had seen it herself. But…maybe the job was getting to the poor kid. No wonder Dean had been reluctant to leave him alone. But that wasn't the sort of responsibility Dean should have to deal with; shouldn't their Father be the one dealing with it all? Oh, yeah, he was missing. What the hell was wrong with this family?

She rolled her eyes, her finger moving over the **'delete all messages' **icon. Dean didn't need this, any of this. And if nobody else was going to help him, she would. One way or another.

Fortunately or unfortunately, the tell-tale squeal of the bathroom door sounded at that moment, and Cassie hastily switched the cell off and snapped it shut, placing it back on the table. She had bought this evening, at least, for herself and for Dean. There would time enough to worry about…no, to deal with Sam Winchester later.

Ironically, not too far away, Sam was rapidly running out of time.

**A/N: Ooh, that naughty, naughty Cassie. (ducks flying rotten fruit) She's on the out, I swear! Poor old Dean, so confused I should probably do something about that. Probably. **

**Next chapter: Sam gets himself in a pickle, Dean and Cassie are equal hypocrites and Dean finally makes up his mind. **

**Any comments, lobbing of sharp projectiles or corrections are welcome, so please review! Thanks for reading! **


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: So sorry for the wait! I was on holiday, then I had Summer work…but it's here now, so.**

**IMPORTANT: NO Dean/OC or Mary-sues, Cassie was from the episode 'Route 666', only a smidgeon of Dean/Cassie (grits teeth)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, season two would be out, and the Impala would be MINE (drools)**

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic**

**KEY THING:**

_**Bold italic is lyrics from a song**_

_Italic is 'the spooky voice' (damn that sounds cheesy…)_

**Et voila!**

**5.**

**Lost in translation**

For a few minutes, they ate in silence. It wasn't an uncomfortable silence, not entirely. The mood was not as tense as it had been, but something lingered in the air which maintained a sense of unease. Once their plates were clean, Dean cleared his throat gruffly, and Cassie looked up from neatly arranging knife and fork together before her.

"So, uh…enough 'bout me. How've you been?"

He asked, genuine interest managing to seep into his tone. The phrase 'how've you been' usually would not so much as come near Dean Winchester with a ten foot re-enforced iron bargepole, but the fact he was making an effort did not go unnoticed by his companion. Recognizing the peace offer as what it was, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and nodded.

"Okay, I guess. Mom's been a bit skittish since…y'know, but otherwise she's doing fine, considering."

Dean nodded, lacing his hands together on the tabletop, resisting the urge to fiddle with the black leather wristband.

"That's good to know."

He returned neutrally, keeping his tone as polite as he could. He did not often 'do' pleasantries. In fact, the only times he properly communicated was either when he was threatening, charming or wheedling, none of which particularly employed the use of courtesy. That was when he actually bothered to speak with the general population.

Other than that, he only really ever to spoke to Sam, and occasionally Dad. Sam usually involved teasing or stating orders, or being scared shitless. Again, none of these seemed to warrant 'so, how are you today, little brother mine?' more like 'so, any freak-o visions lately, psychic boy?'. Dean often wondered what a shrink might think of he and Sam's distinctly odd sibling bond. Five minutes in and the big white van would already be there to cart them away, no doubt.

"Dean? You're spacing out again."

Dean shook himself, flashing a crooked grin in apology, at which Cassie rolled her eyes through her smile.

"Right. Sorry."

She rested her chin on an upturned palm, regarding him thoughtfully. He held her gaze, betraying nothing while attempting to keep the tenseness out of his demeanour. He couldn't help it. You didn't just throw twenty two years of watching your moves out the window in a single night.

"Something on your mind? And no smartass comments, either."

Dean opened his mouth to do just that, before he hesitated. He was doing it again; bringing up the walls, boxing himself in. It was a defence thing. The less you felt, the less you hurt. It was the way he had always been. He had never properly talked about any of it; in fact, he had been silent for months after…that night. It had all just stayed holed up inside. But he knew that the dam was close to breaking; the greater the rise, the harder the fall and all that bull. So, why the hell not? Just this once.

"Actually…I've been thinking about a whole lot of things recently."

He managed, and she blinked, surprised at his sincerity. He chuckled to himself internally. Dean Winchester, sincere and heartfelt. Who'd have thought. Sammy would have a field day if he ever found out. A vision of his brother jumping up and down with glee while brandishing a care-bear almost made Dean laugh aloud, before he did a double take and wondered where all this weirdness in his brain came from. Maybe Mom had dropped him on his head as a baby; that was Sam's theory, anyway.

"Did it hurt?"

She jested, a look of mock concern plastering her features. Dean frowned, and she laughed softly, shaking her head at his petulant expression.

"Sorry. Couldn't resist. Go on."

Dean paused for a moment, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, trying to find the words. Maybe this hadn't been such a great idea. The whole 'sharing and caring', as he had stated many, many times, just did not suit him. But he had to try. At least, a little. He couldn't let go of the past until he tried. He wasn't even sure he wanted to.

Keeping his eyes fixed carefully on the varnished tabletop, he lowered his voice and began to speak slowly, almost without emotion. He kept that well behind the walls.

"I can barely remember the life before this one. I mean…I only have little snatches. Y'know, helping Mom feed Sammy, Dad reading us a bedtime story…things like that."

There had been more, of course. His clearest memory, before the fire, had been playing trains in the living room. He would set up a disjointed track so it ran in an oval shape around the thick, sweet-smelling baby rug that Sam would lie on. He would then crawl around on burning knees, chaffing the heels of his palms on the carpet, trundling in time with the carriage and making 'choo choo' noises. Sammy would watch him from the middle of the circle, dark eyes wide, gurgling and batting tiny hands whenever the train drew close. Dean had always been very proud that Dad would sometimes leave them alone together, instructing Dean to keep an eye on his brother. The fact that his baby brother was entrusted to _him _had always made his chest swell with pride.

But after the fire, Mom's death…the task had become an obsession. A duty, the one thing that seemed to matter to him. After that day, he had hardly thought of himself. Only of Dad, struggling not buckle through his grief, and of Sammy, who after a week or so of wide-eyed fear and confusion stopped crying for Mom altogether. Dean wished he could have forgotten that something was missing. But his only thought had been that they needed him; that Sam needed him.

Then Sam had left; and Dean's world was turned suddenly upside down with a single turn, bringing him crashing down to earth (or sky) with painful resonance.

"Do you remember…anything before Sam? Before he was born? When it was just you and your Dad, your Mom?"

Dean thought carefully, images flashing before his eyes, slotting awkwardly into place like slides on a screen. Mom, smiling, tickling his bare stomach with nimble fingers, eliciting a shower of giggles. Her own stomach was rounded, protruding. He would sit perched on it, carefully, so as not to squash his little brother. He would tell her that was silly, and she would laugh and swing him round in a whirl of golden curls and swirling colours.

Every morning he would slip into bed beside her while Dad handed her coffee in a china cup, and lay with his head on her tummy, listening intently. Dad had said that his little brother couldn't talk yet, since he was still only very small, so Dean would talk to the bump instead. Sometimes he would feel it kick, and delighted at the thought that little brother had understood his excited babble.

Before that…before the euphoria of a new playmate and the prospects the little creature known as 'baby' brought, there was only the vague recall of sensations. Feelings, sounds, sweet smells and hot and cold spells. No focus, no purpose.

The life before Sammy was nothing but a mindless dream; meaningless in it's almost suffocating innocence.

-----------------------------

Sam moved with his head bent uncomfortably, his neck burning at the angle, his hunched shoulder muscles horribly cramped. The rain pounded relentlessly against the top of his head, curling strands of dark hair before his vision. His usual unruly mop was plastered to his skull, tendrils of water slipping from the tips of his bangs and sliding down his face in a sick mockery of tears. The sky above him rumbled ominously every now and then, blinding flashes of light occasionally making Sam jump as though the lightning had actually struck him.

He vaguely recalled Dad warning him about making sure you weren't either near telephone wires or the tallest thing around in a thunderstorm. At six foot four, and stuck on a one way road into town lined with two sets of wooden pylons on either side of him, Sam would have to say he was ignoring that advice with quite impressive success.

As a particularly loud clap of thunder sounded almost directly above his head, Sam let out a strangled sound of frustration, and abruptly halted, glaring accusingly up at the stormy grey sky above him:

"No, I hadn't fucking forgotten you! I think I get the freakin' point about the whole ominous thunder thing…"

He called up grouchily, fully aware that were he not alone out here, he would look like some psychopath who liked to talk to things with an unhealthy leather fetish. Not that he wasn't grateful for the warmth Dean's jacket lent him. He drew a deep, steadying breath, and jerked the collar of the jacket higher up his neck, shuddering slightly as steely cold water slid down his back.

"Irony's a bitch…"

He muttered idly, stuffing his icily numb hands under his armpits and breaking into an erratically paced sprint once again. For a couple of miles now he had alternately run like fury, jogged, and finally submitted to a brisk walk to catch his breath before charging off again. The fear in his heart kick-started the adrenaline which powered his body forward like liquid mercury in his veins. Dean, he would repeat to himself, over and over again. He had to get to Dean. It had become somewhat of a holy mantra.

Beside the fear, dread and the sharp pain in his sides, there was something else which weighed heavily on his mind. Since he had left the motel room he had felt the distinctive tingling prickle of being watched. Perhaps even followed. When he slowed his pace he would cast wary glances at the lingering shadows dancing in the pale half-light, watching, searching. But all he could do for now was watch his own back as best he could while running hell for leather (pardon the pun, he muttered to Dean's jacket) to get to the town. To Dean.

The outline of a greying white sign loomed ahead, and Sam squinted through the driving rain to make out the letters, blurred in bold lettering:

**Cape Girardeau**

**5 miles**

"Five miles. Yay. Terrific. Watch me jump for joy."

Sam groaned sarcastically, the sound muffled in the noise about him. He stood still for a moment, quietly shaking in the cold emptiness which surrounded him despite the storm. Hopelessness filled his already heavy heart with ice. His lungs were on fire, his throat was raw, and acidic trembling betrayed his traitorous limbs. There was no time.

_The figure raised a curved, gleaming blade of metal, brought it carefully to poise just beside the exposed skin of Dean's neck, just outside his brother's line of vision._

Whooping in a gasping breath Sam broke once again into a stumbling, desperate sprint, eyes narrowed and head pounding with the beat of blood on his brain. He could no longer think, could feel nothing past the impact of his feet on hard tarmac and the shock it sent up his aching legs.

"…Dean…"

He breathed, though the name came out as no more than a rasping hiss between heavy breaths, a silent prayer for somebody to hear, to relay the message, someone, anyone. Please.

_The blade slit clean through the tender flesh of Dean's neck, violent spouts of crimson life fluid rising high through the air and spattering the bonnet of the Impala with dark blood. _

Sam pursed his lips and set his jaw, bowing his head and grating out through clenched teeth:

"I swear Dean, if you're dead, I'm gonna fucking kill you."

It wasn't even funny.

-----------------------------

After failing to receive adequate answer from Dean, Cassie had graciously decided to the let the matter lie and instead steered the conversation towards pleasantries once again. Both were growing tired of the routine, but somehow, it was safer for the both of them to hide behind their respective masks. He behind one of indifference, she behind one of harsh endurance.

"So, do you wanna do something after this? Go for a walk around town?"

She proposed, before casting a wary look at the pounding rain beyond the window. It seemed as though even the elements themselves were rising up today. It was an unsettling thought. Dean considered for a moment, brow furrowed, before he shook his head slowly.

"It's getting kinda late. And me and Sam've got a gig tomorrow, in a town nearby. Y'know, _our _type of gig, and there are people's lives at stake, so…"

He trailed off, not feeling the need to elaborate further. She smiled, understanding, but the expression was a little guarded. Something substantial still stood defiantly between them, preventing her from getting close. Even when he himself was trying.

"Duty calls, as ever, hm?"

He did not reply, and she drew a breath, twisting her hands carefully together in her lap. Her knuckles faded to tell-tale white.

"Did you make some sort of promise to your brother?"

She blurted out, the comment far more accusing than she had originally intended. But she had to know. Had to get a rise out of him, something, a clue, to give her a sign…he was so difficult to read. It was one of the things that had drawn her to him in the first place, but now…it only served to confuse her further.

Dean's head snapped up, the walls re-forming and standing strictly to attention, as his eyes narrowed and he retaliated in a slightly raised voice:

"What is it with you and your obsession with Sam! Hell, even that whole thing with the killer truck, it was constantly 'where's your brother', 'what's Sam doing'? I mean, do you have a problem with him, or something?"

Cassie smarted from the comment, feeling as though she had been slapped in the face. She flushed. It was true of course, but back then it had been to avoid the subject of them; she and him. Now it seemed as though she couldn't get _away_ from the subject of Sam. Meeting his searing gaze, she murmured quietly, yet bluntly:

"Yes."

Dean was genuinely thrown, and he blinked, deflating, and after a moment managed to grate out:

"What?"

It was said with no venom; only surprise, and an unconscious offence. Drawing herself up, Cassie blundered blindly on, half convincing herself that this was the only way; if you wanted to get through to a Winchester, then speak Winchester-lingo. In other words, say exactly what you mean.

"Yes, I do have a problem with him."

She said a little shakily. There was a stony silence. Tension crackled like electricity in the empty air.

"Anyone who has a problem with Sam has a problem with me."

Dean said heavily. Cassie bristled, cleared her throat, and placed her shaking hands palm down on the table to quell them.

"There's no need to get defensive. It's just…"

She hesitated, and Dean folded his arms, frowning at her guardedly. His normally sea-green eyes had darkened to a stormy, dangerous grey.

"If you've got something to say, say it."

So she did.

"I like the kid, don't get me wrong. He's nice, sweet, caring…but it seems to me like he's a little selfish too."

Dean's features betrayed nothing, besides a testy twitch which indicated his obvious anger. It was very clear that he was keeping his fiery temper reined in, if barely. His entire body had tensed rigid in his chair.

"Selfish? How?"

His voice fluctuated with now barely concealed rage and defiance. Cassie steeled herself, schooling her features into a neutrally blank expression.

"Dean, he ditched you for college. You gave him the best years of your childhood and he turned his back on you without so much as a proper goodbye. And the moment he needs you you just turn around and pretend it's all okay? That it didn't hurt you? How can you _do _that? How can you just let him treat you like some kind of security blanket which he can dump whenever he feels like it!"

Dean flinched almost imperceptibly.

"It's not like that."

He said, firmly, resolute in his belief. Cassie bit her lip, slightly frightened of the suppressed emotion concealed behind the blank face. But above that, she pitied him. And she felt guilty for that. Uncertainly, she again broke the steely quiet.

"Don't you ever feel like he…ties you down, somehow? I mean you're constantly worried about him! It's ridiculous!"

Dean regarded her coldly for a moment.

"Sam can take care of himself."

He stated, flatly. Cassie frowned slightly.

"That's not what I said. What is it, Dean? Why are you so protective of him?"

Dean looked at her like she had just asked him why the cheese monster never landed on the moon.

"He's my brother."

He said, blindly, without hesitation. She smiled, suddenly wishing she had siblings. After all, she could never truly understand why that meant so much to him. How could she possibly relate? Despite that, however…just what could be so binding, so important, through that one simple fact?

"Yes, thank you, I had noticed that, but…I mean…why? Just…why?"

Dean shrugged, and she felt a twinge of anger at his calm yet icy demeanour. The walls had slammed up again. Didn't he realise she was only trying to help?

"Because it's what I do. What I've always done. Ever since the fire. I carried him out the house."

He faltered, eyes affixed on some faraway memory which she was not part of. The haunted look in his eyes was…disturbing. Swallowing thickly, she said quietly:

"Go on."

Dean did not look at her; his hands had begun to fist tightly in the material of his shirt, twisting the material in a subconscious gesture.

"Mom was pinned to the ceiling with her abdomen sliced open. I could see from the doorway. On fire. The heat, it was…horrible. Like I'd stepped clean into hell. Dad shoved Sammy into my arms, told me to get out of the house. I did."

He swallowed, lowered his gaze, and continued.

"Thing was…Sammy wasn't crying. He wasn't howling like he should have been, wasn't even moving, squirming like he usually did. He was just staring at me, with these huge eyes, like he was looking to me to do something. And he knew. I could tell he knew she…Mom…was dead."

He halted, lost in thought, and she gave him a moment before gently suggesting:

"Dean, he was just a baby. You probably just imagined it."

He shook his head vehemently, eyes narrowed once again.

"No. I didn't. And after Dad started with the obsessive hunting and everything…Sammy and me. We were all each other had left."

He didn't even seem to speaking to her anymore. He was more contemplating his own inner thoughts, justifying all that he believed in. Cassie licked her dry lips, feeling her heart ache for him. She had a feeling the boy, the smiling, carefree boy that this shell had once been, had long since been dead. All that was left was a soldier.

And yet…sometimes, just sometimes, Dean would look at Sam and she would see the boy shining out of the man's face. The proud older brother, the protector, the best friend. In those moments, those fleeting glimpses, it would seem to her that, to Dean, Sam was his world. All he needed, and it was enough. He was happy.

She felt jealousy rear up in her like an angry creature in her bowels. Not just of Dean, capable of such a simple existence, but of Sam. With 'little brother' around…there would never be enough room for Dean to keep a little of himself for anyone else. He had already given it all away. To little Sammy.

And what did the kid do with it?

Chuck it back in his face.

"And then he left you, too. Went to college."

Dean glared with venom at the table, staring into the swirling patterned depths of the wood as though it held the secret of life. He seemed to ponder on her words, before he bristled, once again the defensive elder brother.

"He had his reasons."

He muttered, more to himself than to her. Then his head snapped up, and he met her gaze with determination and resolve. She felt incredulity and his seemingly fragile strength. He was tired, she could tell. World weary. Eyes aged by suffering shone out of a young face. Too young.

"All the people I ever care about always leave me. It's like I'm…cursed. That's why…I'm the way I am. You remember? You once asked me why I backed off whenever we got close. That's why. Happy now?"

No. She wasn't at all happy at his bitter words. But at least now she understood, at a least a little. Emboldened by her progress, she knitted her fingers together on the tabletop and regarded him curiously.

"But you're close to Sam, aren't you?"

Dean hesitated.

"Not as much as before."

He muttered, stiffly. Cassie frowned.

"Before he left?"

"Yeah."

She tried to place herself in his shoes, thought through the scenario, tried desperately to understand. How would she have felt?

"Because he betrayed your trust? Because he left? Don't you feel bitter towards him?"

There was a pause.

"Nope."

Dean's lips curled the tiniest fraction at the corners, not a bitter, resentful smile, but a genuine one. The kind of which he only wore when looking at Sam. Sammy. His little brother, the light of his life, she thought sarcastically. She checked herself, feeling the green monster of jealousy rise in her once again.

"Why not?"

Dean appeared almost irritated by her constant questioning. He shifted in his chair and cleared his throat a little, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking at her with a sombre expression quite contrasting to his usual character.

"Look…just, all my life, since Mom died…the only thing I've ever thought about is keeping Sam safe. I don't know why, but I feel…like it's my purpose. Maybe that's stupid. There was this Vicar once, on one of our gigs, who thought he could work miracles. Turns out he couldn't. But he said something weird to me."

Cassie, intrigued, leant forward eagerly.

"What did he say?"

She breathed. Dean told her a day when he had suffered fatal damage to his heart. How Sam had refused to give up on him; had taken him to a faith healer.

_Why? Why me? Out of all the sick people, why save me?_

_Well, like I said before, the Lord guides me. I looked into your heart, and you just stood out from all the rest. _

_What did you see in my heart?_

_A young man with an important purpose. A job to do. And it isn't finished._

Cassie contemplated what she had just been told for a moment, allowing it to sink in. She believed in the supernatural now, of course. She hadn't much choice. But actual belief, in faith, in purpose, in fate? She found that more difficult to comprehend. She imagined he did, too.

"You believe that?"

It was said without scorn; a simple question, desiring a simple answer.

"I'd like to."

He answered softly. She nodded carefully, tucking away all the little revelations which had occurred to be perused later. She smiled at him uncertainly, not sure what more to expect. They had been through quite the rollercoaster ride tonight.

"Well, I think now I understand…at least, a little. Thanks. For telling me all that. It helped."

Dean grunted, averting his gaze, and her smile widened.

"Aw, you big sissy, Dean, going all shy on me now."

He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes dramatically, once again retreating behind the mask of a lonely yet somehow happy clown. This time, she found she didn't mind. They had both had quite enough for one day.

"Why the hell does everyone have it in for me?"

He grouched. Cassie just laughed, and Dean managed to smile a little. At ease, they descended into comfortable small talk once again, and if you had glanced their way, it may even have seemed as though they were simply two friends, enjoying each other's company and catching up on old times.

On a night like this, they should have known it wouldn't last long.

-----------------------------

Sam's entire body ached, from soaked head to water-logged toes. Every jerking step he now took seemed to wrench his chest wide open, and then snap it shut with serrated jaws. He grimaced, but didn't stop, nor slow his pace. He knew he couldn't afford to.

The rain was easing up a now, the clouds lifting higher above the inky deep bowl of the sky. The air around him had grown thin, laced with the remnants of moisture which clung to him like dew. Somehow, despite the lack of pounding upon his back and the crash of thunder, he felt even more ill at ease than when he had been in danger of being struck by lightning.

He vaguely wondered if frying to death was more painful than wheezing his way into the afterlife, but quickly discarded the thought, focusing on the road. He glanced about warily, Dean's coat now feeling almost uncomfortably heavy against his back. He shivered; a long, slow shudder which crept up his spine and spawned cold prickles at the base of his neck.

He wasn't alone out here.

_Sammy…_

Whispered a voice teetering on the edge of laughter.

Sam stopped dead, the heel of his foot poised in mid-rise. He stood very, very still, trying to keep his breathing even, cursing the swirls of pearly white mist which spun his lips with each exhalation. Nothing. Not a sound. Yet something was here.

Something had spoken his name. And it didn't even have the courtesy to use it with respect. Only Dean could call him Sammy. _Ever._

"Hello?"

It came out hoarsely, and Sam suppressed the urge to wince, swallowing thickly and licking dry lips. Hesitantly, he turned his head to survey the immediate area, his right hand idly straying to the reassuring metallic cold of the gun resting quietly in his breast pocket.

"Is somebody there?"

He said, louder now, feeling his body relax a little despite himself. Perhaps…maybe he had imagined it? He was utterly exhausted, he knew. And it wasn't like he wasn't prone to hallucinations anyway. Maybe this whole deal was really starting to get to him. Half-satisfied with his own reasoning, he let out a long breath, turned abruptly on his heel and struck up a slightly more steady pace along the road.

"Ok, keep calm, keep walking. Just mind playing tricks."

Too bad my mind's tricks tend to turn out as little differently from other people's, Sam thought darkly. His thoughts strayed once again from his own situation to Dean's imminent one, and shivered again, this time neither from the cold or the fear. Not for himself, anyway.

He had learned recently to trust in his instincts, as screwed up as they may be. If his…'weird vibes' as he had once deemed them were telling him that something wasn't right, something probably wasn't. Dad had always called it his 'sixth sense'.

_Sammy Winchester!_

The voice came again, more insistent this time. Sam jerked violently, cold shock mixed with fear filling the pit of his stomach with hot lead. His eyes narrowed defiantly even as his heart beat began to race, frantically pumping life fluid through his veins. Every one of his senses tingled with anticipation, his muscles tensed and ready for action despite their weariness. It was not often the hunter became the hunted.

_Bang bang! Like the rifle…_

High pitched laughter filled his ringing ears, and Sam spun quickly around, staring frantically out at the pressing darkness. Nothing. He could see nothing, and the laughter had died away, but he still _felt _the presence as clearly as though it was standing right beside him. He shook his head violently, cursing inwardly. He didn't have time for this. Dean-

Sam turned on his heel and bolted, running even harder and faster than before, possibly than he had ever done in his life. Blood stained leather seats, tinny lyrics and empty sea-green eyes filled his heart with a terrible dread.

"Move faster. Gotta move faster."

Just audible over the roaring of blood in his ears, he heard again the laughter dwindling after him, drawing further and further away.

"Ok then, fine. Gotta move a LOT faster."

He suppressed the choking helplessness which threatened to overwhelm him, stiffening his resolve and silently begging for salvation, for something, anything, to lend him the strength to go on. When no such help came, he instead drew it from the flickering warmth which bled patiently in his heart. A single word fled his lips, fluttering on the wind like a forgotten prayer. Dean.

_**From all of these signs saying sorry, but we're closed…**_

"Dean…where the _hell _are you…"

The pleading breath was lost in a whirl of aching limbs and slippery black tarmac; he bowed his head and pushed himself harder, further, faster. A lone figure in the dark and the cold, seemingly caged in by tall wooden poles running black cables like demented creatures, on and on, down a journey which seemed from here to have no end.

…**_all the way down the telegraph road._**

-----------------------------

**A/N: CASSIE'S OPINIONS ON SAM ARE NOT MY OWN! I do believe Sam has been known to be a little bit selfish, but all Cassie's other perusings are not really my opinion. And as I've said before, THIS IS NOT A DEAN/CASSIE. However, it would be out of character for them to do nothing but argue, considering how far they got in Route 666.**

**Let's just say the greater the rise, the harder the fall. Trust me. **

**Next chapter: Sam's panicking, Dean's panicking, and Cassie tries unsuccessfully to salvage the situation, with devastating results. **

**The fluffy angst cometh! Praises be! Thanks for reading. Review if you want the next chappy! (yes, I am evil).**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: (drags this fic back from the edge of the abyss) Sorry for the wait!**

**So, with season two (ah…season two…) in all its angsty glory, I finally return to this too-long neglected fic! (Sorry guys!) So much has happened since when this was set, I'll have to work hard not to change anything which isn't supposed to have happened…**

**IMPORTANT: NO Dean/OC or Mary-sues, Cassie was from the episode 'Route 666', only a smidgeon of Dean/Cassie (grits teeth)**

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, the Impala would be MINE (drools) oh, and the Winchester's too, I guess...(sorry guys!)**

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic**

**I think I'll dedicate this to the fabulous writers of Supernatural, for writing so much Dean!mega!angst! I am not worthy (bows).**

**6.**

"So, we split the meal fifty fifty?"

Cassie considered him for a second, before nodding with a small smile and reaching into her pocket. She retrieved a small, dark leather purse and snapped the clasp open.

"Sure. How much?"

Dean picked up a thin slip of pale white paper from a silver tray and inspected it; the bill stated a figure, and he frowned, performing a hasty mental calculation with surprisingly little difficulty.

"Uh…forty seven dollars, twenty five cents. Don't bother with the cents."

Cassie sorted through a few notes and some change, eventually settling the required amount in her palm. She handed the money to Dean, who added it to his own then passed it to the patiently watching waiter. Cassie slipped her purse back into her pocket, and froze as her fingers slid past something metallic and familiar. She swallowed and cleared her throat, shooting a sidelong glance at Dean, before pulling it from her jacket and holding it out to him.

"Here's your cell."

She smiled encouragingly, and he nodded a gruff thanks, taking it a little more roughly than he had intended.

"Oh…right."

There was an awkward silence. Dean clutched the cell tightly in his palm, feeling as though it was burning his bare skin. His fingers itched to just flip it open, just in case. Just to check; get rid of this wretched weight in his stomach.

"I, uh…I should probably go to the bathroom. It's quite a way home."

He nodded absently, as she turned and left, echoing Dean's own actions not so long ago. Dean's gaze slipped slowly down to the small metal device resting in his hand, and felt a distinct mixture of guilt, relief and apprehension. His hand twitched. He hesitated, eyes moving from the cell, to the ladies bathroom door, and back.

Fuck it.

He abruptly flipped it open, turning away, and gritted his teeth as he navigated the many menu's with ease, until he reached the inbox folder. Feeling slightly numb and detached, he watched his own finger select 'messages' as though it was someone else's. He froze.

No new messages.

Dean frowned, some unknown force making him feel uneasy. He raised an eyebrow, and decided to scroll down anyway. His frown grew deeper as the screen rolled into the most recent two messages.

Both were entitled 'Sammy', but neither of them had been there the last time he'd checked. For a moment, he was confused, before he glanced up to stare disbelievingly at the bathroom door, then to Cassie, who was now making small talk with the waiter; her back to him.

His frown snowballed into an all out glare, and he abruptly stood and marched over to stand just behind her. The waiter hastily made his excuses and moved away, and Cassie turned, taken aback at his expression.

"So much for fucking trust."

He hissed scathingly, and she blinked in confusion.

"Dean? What-"

Dean held the cell before her, right up close to her face, his hand shaking with suppressed rage. Her eyes nearly crossed, she stared impassively at the screen, taking in the two incriminating messages.

"Oh."

She said, quietly. She was silent for a moment, then licked her lips, and drew herself up, determined.

"Do you really blame me? And you realize you just broke _my _trust by checking that."

Dean was not impressed.

"Well then we're both damned to hell. Why'd you do it, Cassie?"

He asked, deflating a little. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and sighed tiredly.

"I didn't know how else to understand, to make you talk…"

She looked at him pleadingly.

"I'm just trying to help, Dean."

Dean felt white hot fury fill his chest, and he snatched the cell from the air, hands balling into fists.

"Yeah? Well I don't want your fucking help, or your _pity. _Because I have _nothing _to be sorry about."

He said loudly, and she folded her arms, raising a sceptical eyebrow at him. Their voices rose with every word they spoke, and the restaurant fell eerily silent about them.

"Oh really? Have you listened to those messages? Your family is seriously screwed up, Dean! The kid was muttering something about _premonitions_, for Christ sake!"

Dean felt the blood drain from his face, and he immediately fumbled with the cell, selecting the first of the messages and pressing the small device hard against his ear, straining to hear. Cassie said nothing, watching in stony silence as Dean's face became a parade of emotions.

"_Hey, uh, Dean-um, you said you'd leave your cell on, but…I guess you just got involved and left it lying about, huh? At least, I hope you did, and you're not…"_

Sam faltered, and Dean blinked. He didn't like where this seemed to be going.

"…_anyway, if you could just call back and let me know sometime…soon…that'd be great. And you can bitch about it to me later, ok? Just…look, I had a…vision…a premonition, I think, and…you…well, you died. Car crash on your way home, so if you get this, just…be careful. Ok. So, um…yeah. Ring back if you can. Sorry, man. I'll see you tomorrow…" _

Acidic, cold fear flared in Dean's gut, and he ignored Cassie's soothing, pleading voice as he frantically selected the second message, a million poisonous thoughts racing through his mind. What the _fuck _was he thinking, turning the damned thing off? And now…

"_Dean…maybe I'm wasting my fucking time but what the hell. Something odd is going on here; the motel room got trashed. Typical signs of any haunting, y'know, smashed glass, flickering lights, the works. Yeah. Point is…" _

Sam hesitated, and Dean frowned.

"…_point is something's around and it's trying to kill both of us. And if it's already got you then…not much point in me blabbering like an idiot anymore. But if it hasn't, it's going to. So…uh…I'm coming. Oh yeah; I'm gonna wear your favourite jacket out in the rain because it's the most likely one to stop a knife. If you wanna bitch about it, save it, man." _

Dean stayed very still, allowing the cell phone to drop limply away from his ear.

I turned the cell off.

I…God. I broke my promise. I failed him.

"Shit…_Sammy_…"

He whispered, the words broken and disjointed, barely recognizable. The world had faded to a dull grey blur of colorless shapes and sounds about him, and he moved slowly, sluggishly, as though in a dream.

"I have to go."

He heard his own voice murmur, coldly. He had taken a few faltering, unsteady steps towards the door when something slammed into his chest, and he looked down to find Cassie blocking his way. For a moment, all thought left him, save a simple word:

Sam. Sam. Sammy. God, what was he even doing here? Sammy was out there, somewhere, trying to get to _him_…and something else was out there, too. Something that was trying to hurt them…

"This is madness! He probably just had one too many at a bar and thought he was seeing things. Dean, look at me."

Sammy…

"Does he really mean that much to you? That you'd give up…everything?"

…I have to get to Sammy.

"Get out of my way."

He said slowly, with calculated venom. She shook her head, and he moved sharply forwards, only for her to push him back forcefully.

"But he left you! He abandoned you too!"

He stared at her, emotionless.

"So did you."

She flinched, wringing her hands, shoulders slumping.

"I…"

She lowered her gaze, shame-faced. Dean felt the smallest twinge of something deep inside him at her broken expression, only for it to be swamped immediately with blinding rage and burning panic.

"I made a mistake."

They both stood perfectly still, staring hard into each others eyes, pushing, pushing, neither willing to give. Eventually, Cassie broke the tense silence.

"You don't have to do this. Please. Dean, don't throw everything away. We can make this work. You just have to try."

No.

"I can't. He's…all I've got."

She moved forward, hands trembling, and framed his face with her palms. She leant in close, her dark eyes begging, pleading, imploring him to listen. Yet even as he felt that stabbing heat again, that wonderful warmth which felt so unfamiliar…a stronger feeling lingered deeper beneath.

"You've got _me_."

She whispered with conviction. She shook quietly, as Dean very, very slowly moved away, out of her grip. He swallowed, and shook his head very slightly.

"Not anymore."

He hesitated, and smiled shakily, steeling his resolve.

"I'm sorry."

She wrapped her arms around herself, managing the smallest curve of her lips even as her eyes shone with desolation. She uttered a choked, desperate laugh, and nodded.

"So am I."

The blink of an eye, and he was gone. The restaurant door swung violently, then slowed, settling into a languid sway; hinges creaked, and a cutting breeze spun droplets of rain in a complex dance, before dashing them against the tiles on the floor in an almost elegant splatter. She shivered, her smile falling, barely making out the dark, hastily retreating figure which faded into the shadows of the night.

"Goodbye…Dean."

She breathed.

-----------------------------

_Come play with me, Sammy…_

Frantic, whooping breaths. Darkness, deep, impenetrable darkness. Aching limbs and driving rain. The world seemed to shrink, encompassing him in a shroud of desperation, smothering black, choking him.

_Sammy!_

"…Dean…"

_Sammy I wanna play!_

"…Dean, you have to be alright…"

_You can run, run, run away…_

The voices echoed endlessly, taunting and mocking him, a wheedling tone seeping into his exhausted consciousness and making fear rage through his veins like liquid fire. He ran, hard, fast, stumbling. His palms stung, fragments of gravel embedded in his skin where he had grated his hands upon the ground in a frantic effort to get up.

…_but you can't hide!_

Why wasn't he there yet? Surely he must have been running for hours now. Yet the town drew no closer, and the road seemed almost to move with him rather than remain stationary. His entire body felt like a leaden weight, sinking deep, deep into the ground with each step.

_Ring a ring a roses…_

There was high pitched laughter, and Sam skidded to a halt as small, dark figures seems almost to dance before his vision. He swayed, panting, squinting through the rain. Yes. Child-like figures, circling around, skipping gleefully. Singing.

_A pocket full of posies…_

No. He couldn't stop. He had to get to Dean.

_At-ish-oo, at-ish-oo!_

"Stay the hell away from me!"

He lashed out blindly, forcing his feet to move forwards, tripping slightly; his head was spinning painfully, and he felt dizzy and light headed. Was his exhaustion so great that he was seeing things?

_I thought we were friends!_

Sam shook his head violently from side to side, too breathless to speak, too tired to anything but run, carry on, move forward.

_You're mean, Sammy!_

Something cold slammed into his left side, and he went sprawling to the ground, breath hitching as his already injured hands were dragged across the jagged ground. For a split second, he was still, shuddering violently, the cold presence encompassing the air around him.

_I hate you!_

Something sharp and hot slashed his cheek, slicing through his cold skin, drawing a spatter of blood which stained the dark tarmac crimson. Within seconds, the rain had washed it clean. Sam gasped, a shaking hand automatically clutching the gash. For a moment, all was quiet, save for Sam's heaving breaths.

"SHIT! I said STAY AWAY!"

He shouted, trying to rise to his feet, only to feel his bones sag and collapse beneath him. He slumped back down, feeling the blood break beneath his skin to form bruising. His throat was raw, his chest filled with acidic cold, and he bowed his head despite himself.

_I'm ashamed of you, Samuel. Very disappointed._

The voice of John Winchester filled the air. There was a ringing silence, as Sam's entire body went completely rigid.

"What…the hell…"

He huffed, and something giggled gleefully; Sam brought one knee slowly up, resting his arms upon it, glancing around frantically.

_Sammy! Sam! Are you being lazy again? _

The unmistakable tones of a twelve year old Dean seemed to echo from the past, followed by more laughter. Sam pursed his lips, and fumbled in his pocket, painstakingly rising to his feet as he did so, resting his other hand on his knees as he held up his cell phone.

"Good idea."

He muttered to nobody in particular, and kept a wary eye on his surroundings as he speed dialled the first number on the screen.

"Please God, Dean, be there…"

_Stop that!_

One ring.

Two rings.

Three rings.

Nothing.

Just as cold, encompassing despair began to overtake his senses, the ringing cut out, and the muffled sounds of bad reception filled his empty head.

"_Sam!"_

Dean's sharp voice sounded in his ear. Sam suddenly stood bolt upright, strength flowing back into his body like liquid mercury at the sound of his brother's voice.

"…Dean..?"

He croaked, almost sobbing with relief. Almost. After all, Winchester's never cried. And the hot moisture pouring down his face was only rain.

-----------------------------

"…_Dean…?"_

Dean slumped in his seat as he heard Sam's admittedly exhausted, but wonderfully, _wonderfully _alive voice sound in his ear. He relaxed his previously white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel and sat up straight, his relief replaced by a now very familiar fear.

"Sammy! Where the hell are you, you idiot?"

The connection fuzzed, and Dean caught only fragments of speech mixed with indistinct sounds. He slammed a fist against the dashboard in frustration, Sam's distorted words forming vague sentences in his mind.

"_Dean, there's something out here…I can't…"_

Dean cursed, glaring out at the driving rain which pounded ominously against the windscreen.

"Sam you're breaking up! Speak clearer!"

"_Keeps talking to me…Dad…sounds like other…"_

It was no use. Dean could barely make head nor tail of what Sam was desperately trying to tell him. Sam was breathing heavily, his voice betraying his blatant exhaustion, and Dean felt his frustration boil over into anger.

"Sam, LISTEN TO ME! WHERE.ARE.YOU?

He said, very loudly and clearly. Damn it, this was his fault…if he hadn't switched off his cell, Sammy wouldn't be out there like this…

"…_main road…out of town…"_

Dean's jaw clenched, and he flattened his foot against the accelerator, feeling the roar of the engine as the Impala seemed to share his determination. The connection sounding in his ear fizzled in and out, and Dean could only hope to God that Sam heard his reply.

"Ok, just hang in there. I'm coming."

"_What? No! Dean…monition…impala will get…by a truck…"_

Dean frowned. Oh. The premonition, of course, Sammy would be worried about him driving anywhere…but right now, Sam was in more danger than he was. Somehow he knew it. Dean took a sharp turning onto the main road out of town, scanning the darkness frantically.

"Screw the premonition, Sammy! It was probably just to lure you out there, anyway. Look, just keep moving along the road, keep talking to me. Where are you now?"

Dean willed the car to go faster, eyes narrowing as he stared about the desolate landscape, searching for Sam's familiar figure but finding nothing. Through the cell, Dean could barely hear Sam's voice as it faded in and out.

"…_mile road sign, by the…"_

Quite suddenly, the connection seemed to cut out completely, but the tone did not sound. Sam was still on the other end, but for some reason, the only sound coming through the cell was that of the pattering of rain on tarmac.

"What? Sam? I can't hear you!"

Apart from minor static, the connection was completely silent. Dean listened carefully, all his senses straining, and vaguely made out harsh, shallow breathing. Leaden fear filled the pit of his stomach.

"Sam? SAMMY!"

He shouted into the receiver. For a moment, there was quiet. Then a high pitched giggle sounded, followed by a child's voice, singing menacingly. The sound was crystal clear despite the interference of static.

_Ring a ring a roses, a pocket full of posies…at-ish-oo, at-ish-oo! We all fall…_

"_DEAN! THERE'S-"_

Sam's desperate call was cut off with sickening clarity.

…_DOWN!_

Suddenly, a loud, metallic crunching sound overtook the connection, making Dean grit his teeth as it resounded about his head. After that, there was absolute silence. Numb all over, Dean licked his lips and managed to whisper:

"Sammy?"

The line went dead, the empty tone droning in his ear like a dulled scream.

"**SAM**!"

But Sam couldn't hear him anymore.

-----------------------------

**A/N: Thank GOD, Cassie is officially OUT OF HERE. Guh. I was getting so sick of her…mind you, she was a great character…**

**Next chapter: The Dean-meister is on the case! Will he get to Sam in time? We can only hope!**

**Any comments, lobbing of sharp projectiles or corrections are welcome, so please review! Thanks for reading!**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Well, here we are again! And I think with Jo's most recent display of Sam abuse (just HOW much screen time of his did she steal?!) the moral to Dean that his brother comes before philandering has never been more evident. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, the Impala would be MINE and season two would be airing in the UK (pouts) **

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic **

**Note: There's going to be very little Sam POV from now on, because if there was, you as readers would know what happened (smiles) and we'd much rather have suspense, wouldn't we? (silence) Wouldn't we? Um, people? **

**7. **

Dean felt horribly detached from the world as he drove, the roar of the engine beneath him seeming to reflect his sense of urgency. He willed himself not to panic, to stay focused, keep a clear head, and normally, it would have worked. But never at a time like this. Not when Sam…

Dean cut off that thought with brutal finality, flooring the accelerator and craning his neck to see into the pitch darkness. The road out of town was a long one, and he had no idea when Sam had left the motel.

_And just whose fault was that? _

He thought darkly, fists clenching around the steering wheel until the coarse stretch of the leather bit into his hand. He had promised; promised himself that he would protect Sam no matter what, rain or shine, through thick and thin. One pretty face walks by and all that goes out the window? What kind of a brother was he?

He would have liked to think it was Cassie's fault, of course. But it wasn't. When it came to Sam, it could only be his fault. Sam was his responsibility, his job, hell, his life. If anything happened to him, it was Dean's fault. He wouldn't have it any other way. And yet…he had, just hours earlier, betrayed his little brother so completely that he felt his stomach turn rebelliously at the thought.

"Fuck, Sam, I'm sorry…"

He murmured to the empty air, but only felt worse for it. What good was it saying that now? What's done is done. Dean swallowed thickly, clearing his throat and continuing to scan the road beyond the impala with barely suppressed panic.

"Come on, Sammy, come on…where the _hell _are you!"

Dean muttered feverishly, beginning to feel a surge of anger at the horribly empty road. Just how hard could it be to spot a 6'4 beanpole with a mop of hair? Sammy was out here, somewhere. Dean just had to find it.

_Of course, it would be slightly more difficult to spot a 6'4 beanpole which is lying dead in a ditch, wouldn't it, Dean? _

The impala swerved violently, and Dean swore, jerking the wheel abruptly, suddenly feeling cold all over. Hold that thought. Sam was fine. Any moment now he would be there, just in sight, and Dean would pull over and give him a right hiding for making him drag his brother away from his night off. And Sam would roll his eyes at him and grumble; and they'd hop in the car and get back to the motel and Dean would have to live with the guilt and terror at what could have happened.

_'…something's around and it's trying to kill both of us.' _

Sam's words brought Dean back from the hazy world of the 'what if'. Dean clenched his jaw and urged the car to go faster, faster. He had made a decision. When he found Sam, he would apologise; flat out, honest to God apologise, because otherwise he feared the dark pit that was growing in his stomach would swallow him whole. Yes. He would apologise.

_If you get the chance, that is. If you haven't really fucked up this time. _

Dean took a deep, shaky breath, fighting back the heaving mass of thoughts and feelings and pain that was closing in on his mind.

"Please, Sammy. You've gotta be okay, you've just got to…hold on, you hear me? I'll let you drive, hell, I'll even swear off women for life! You hearin' me, Sammy?"

And unbeknownst to Dean, Sam actually could. Or as well as could be expected, considering.

-----------------------------

He was spinning. Spinning around and around, in an endless circle, spiralling down deeper and deeper. His head was swirling with half-thoughts, fragments of being, begun but not finished. Somewhere high above him, he felt his own face frown.

_Where…am I? _

His mind was awash with blessed white, a blankness which was appealing in a disconnected sort of way. Meaningless words moved in and out of the seething masses of grey which enveloped the world around him, and the occasional flash of crimson and a stab of pain made him flinch and shy away.

_I…don't like this… _

It was getting darker now. Instead of spinning, he was falling. Down, down, down, further and further and deeper and deeper and darker and darker. He wondered why it was such a bad thing. What was down as opposed to up? Did it matter?

_I…can't just let go…there's…something…I have to…do? _

He struggled internally, trying to force his inert limbs to move but feeling as though he was weighed down by lead weights in every corner of his body. A flash of pain, searing red light, then…more darkness.

_Why…why not…let go? _

He mused, dreamily. As though in answer, something warm, something…achingly familiar, gentle and yet harsh, seeped through the remains of his shattered consciousness like an electrical surge.

**_…Sammy. You've gotta be okay, you've just got to…you hearin' me, Sammy? _**

Oh, he thought, dreamily, the smallest of smiles curling at the edges of his lips. That's why…

-----------------------------

Trying to calm his racing heart, Dean could feel the pressure of anger beginning to build up inside him. He glanced down at the steering wheel, and was surprised to see his own hands shaking, white knuckled with tinges of dark pink. At this rate, he was going to have a breakdown before he reached the first junction.

"Jesus, Sammy…anybody would think you wanted me to die youn-"

Dean broke off as there was a sudden burst of noise, and a truck came as if from nowhere in front of him. He swore and slammed on the brakes, turning the wheel so the car swerved around, missing the edges of the truck by mere millimetres as the truck careened on by and out of sight.

"What…the hell…"

Dean breathed out hoarsely, his entire body shaking with nerves and adrenaline, blood pounding in his ears. He sat quite still for a moment, the veils of shock beginning to thin a little in his mind, gulping in cold and empty air.

"Phew…that was a close one, baby…"

He murmured, rubbing the cool leather of the wheel more to soothe himself than anything. The impala's engine sputtered and whirred in seeming sympathy. Dean pulled his scattered wits back together with resolve, focusing.

"I should be more careful…about what I say…when irony's PMSing, huh?"

He muttered, panting slightly, pushing down on the accelerator a little more gently than previously; but not much. Near-death experiences weren't exactly foreign to him, after all. Besides, it was only a truck. It would take more than a truck to take Dean Winchester out.

Suddenly, Dean frowned.

_'…Dean…monition…impala will get…by a truck…' _

Sam's garbled message: Dean. Premonition. Impala. Hit By Truck. Dean licked his dry lips, remembering the fear in his brother's voice. But…since when had a premonition been wrong? Why had the truck missed him in real life, when in Sam's mind…

Unless it wasn't really a premonition. Unless it was something else, out there, messing with Sam's mind. Made him think it was a premonition, when it wasn't. Even as he drove faster, Dean began to piece things together in his head, bit by bit. Sam having fake premonitions…the motel room being trashed. It had to be something with power, then. Real power. A demon, maybe?

_The _demon?

He shuddered. No, that wasn't possible. None of the signs were present; and he felt…that he would feel more uneasy than this, if it was the demon. He didn't have Sam's psychic mojo, but he had the Winchester nose. A nose which could sniff out evil like a bloodhound; it even had settings! A slight tickle to the throat meant 'oh dearie me, something vaguely out of the ordinary is hanging around, old chap' and a sneeze complete with headache meant 'holy barnacles! Break out the rock salt before you get painfully maimed'. Dean smirked a little at this pondering, before realising that it was both entirely weird to have a supernatural-receptive nose and even more weird to give it a posh voice inside your head. Getting back on point…he somehow knew that it wasn't the big bad. At least, not this time.

What, then?

Dean glanced down at the tarmac road directly ahead of him, covered in a pearly sheen of fallen rain, before abruptly slamming on the breaks so hard it made his bones rattle. For a moment, he sat very, very still, harsh, shallow breathing creating small spirals of hot breath which steamed up the windscreen.

There, almost immediately before the front of the impala, starkly colourful in the blare of the headlights and lying bonelessly prone…was what was unmistakably a human being. Or the body of one.

And it was wearing Dean's jacket.

_'I'm gonna wear your favourite jacket out in the rain because it's the most likely one to stop a knife. If you wanna bitch about it, save it, man.' _

Dean felt his blood run cold.

-----------------------------

His entire body was a mass of pain. It wasn't the blinding, unbearable sort of pain which came with mortal injury, however. More a persistent, gnawing ache which seemed to pulse through his veins like poison. He felt that, had he had any energy left whatsoever, who would have groaned in discontent.

Although the pain was present, it seemed…distant. As though his body was protesting wildly while his mind went on a wander. Perhaps he was dreaming.

_Ring a ring a roses…ring a ring as roses…ring a ring a roses… _

There it was again. Fading in and out, out and in, around and around until he was dizzy with the rhythm and sick of the words. He couldn't see anything; all he could do was feel, and hear. And even when the pain receded a little, there came the voice, that _damned _voice, which laughed and mocked him with the words of a gleeful child.

_You're a triksy one, you are…yes, yes, you are, very triksy. _

It practically crooned to him, before laughing that silvery laugh again. He felt that, somewhere far away in the realms of consciousness, his body would be shuddering with revulsion, maybe even feeling a little ill. He didn't like this. He wanted to go back.

Go back where? Home? Where was that?

That other voice…a familiar voice which made him think of green eyes and an indefinable smell which enveloped him with an encompassing feeling of _safety_. That was home, he decided. That was where he wanted to go back to.

"Who…are you?"

He silently demanded, the thought of the familiar presence lending him a strength which stemmed from a warm well deep inside him. There was a long silence, as the laughter and the singing stopped; clinging to the warmth, he wondered whether he made the voice angry.

_I am your nightmares; I am your dreams. I am your deepest darkest fears, and I am your fondest desires. _

All mirth had left the voice now. The chilling, emotionless tone struck a chord in him which almost smothered the familiar warmth completely, and he felt the dark tendrils of fear beginning to creep into his being and twist its way around him in snarls of restraining cold.

"I want to…go back. Let me go back…please…"

He felt that he should probably be ashamed of the clearly pleading tone which betrayed his fear, but found that he didn't much care. He just wanted to get back. But even as he clung to the thought of the warmth, he could feel the dark and the cold drawing closer around him, pressing in. He wanted to flinch, or draw back, but found that he could only continue to listen as the voice grew louder and clearer.

_I am the playful one, and you are my toy. So, Sammy… _

**_SAMMY! _**

There was a momentary burst of clarity; for a few short seconds, Samuel Winchester came back to himself as blinding light filled his vision and his brother's voice penetrated every fibre of his senses. Dean, he thought, panic stricken. I have to get back to Dean.

_…let's play! _

His world shook, his brother's name dying on his lips and losing it's meaning almost at once. In the silence that followed, the darkness swallowed him whole.

-----------------------------

"**_SAMMY!_**"

Dean heard his own voice call out his brother's name, and felt his own throat burn, but could not recall ordering his mouth to open. Within seconds he had fumbled with the car door, thrown it open launched himself out onto the road. However, once the immediate impulse had gone, he found himself frozen, unable to move, staring down at what was clearly his brother's prone form lying horribly still in the middle of the road.

_This is all your fault. You failed. You failed him. All your fault. _

"Oh God…_fuck…_shit, Sam, no…"

_My fault…oh God, my fault… _

Endless streams of words fell from Dean's mouth as he stumbled down to his knees beside his brother, the impact sending tremors up and down his spine and making the shaking in his limbs worse. Agonisingly slowly, his hand reached out to hover just above his brother's shoulder. He breathed heavily, trying desperately to suppress the blind rising panic which threatened to overwhelm him.

_Please Sammy please please please don't do this Sammy no… _

Sam was lying as if he had simply fallen down, with his right arm trapped beneath his body and his left sprawled out limply in front of him, as though reaching out. His back was to Dean, and because he was tilted at an awkwardly rigid angle, his head seemed to loll limp and lifeless, supported only by the road beneath it.

Dean felt bile rise in his throat and swallowed, allowing his hand to fall down and meet the solidity of Sam's shoulder. His breath caught, and his heart skipped a beat. He had expected the heat of life to have seeped into his fingers upon contact, the way it always did in the brief touches between them; a hand on a shoulder, a clap on the back. Not this time.

Sam was _cold. _Horribly, lifelessly, cold.

But that wasn't possible. Sammy was _always _warm. When he had first been born, he had been a little bundle of pink warmth in Dean's lap, cheeks rosy from crying. Even when he had gotten bigger, whenever they had to go out alone to the shops when Dad was on a hunt, Sam would slip a hot hand into his own cool one and huddle into his side, and the warmth would seep into Dean and start to thaw the cold which lay deeper than physical wellbeing. Just days ago, when Sam sat beside him in the car, even while they both shivered and Sam leant across his to turn the heating up on the dashboard, Sam would radiate heat like a beacon.

Sammy would only ever be cold if he was-

Dean ceased to breathe, ceased to think, his heart stilled in its beat. He grabbed Sam's shoulders and flipped the limp body over, feeling his stomach heave as terror pounded through his veins like leaden fire. Sam's eyes were closed as though in sleep, but there was no colour in his skin, his lips bloodlessly pale. Dean's eyes widened, and he gave his brother the gentlest shake he could, hearing the desperation enter his voice as he spoke:

"Sammy! Sam, wake up! Sammy…"

His brother felt like a doll in his arms, limp, boneless, and cold, so horribly, terribly cold. Dean shook him again, harder this time, continuing to beg and plead with all the breath left in his lungs.

"…please wake up…"

Supporting the nape of his brother's neck with one hand, he pressed shaking fingers to Sam's throat.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four seconds.

_Thump. _A beat pulsed beneath his shaking fingertips. Pressure built in Dean's head, and he waited. _Thu-thump. _Another. Suddenly, he became aware of the soft, almost unnoticeable caress of air against his cheeks. A breath. The hand which rested against Sam's chest moved upwards slightly as the lungs beneath it inhaled, a blessed, blessed sign of life.

Sam was alive. Not dead, just cold. Alive. Blessedly alive and living and breathing.

Dean let out choked laughter, and drew a few strangled, panting breaths of his own, and his knees gave way beneath him. He slumped down over his brother's prone form, drawing Sam in closer to him, smiling and simply watching Sam breath gently, in and out, in and out, in and out. Forgetting himself in the soothing relief and the rhythm of Sam's heart beating beside his, Dean leant his forehead against his brother's and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Thank…you…"

He murmured, to nobody in particular, his brother's hair tickling his nose. Dean breathed in deeply, allowing the smell that was so distinctly Sammy to fill his senses and soothe away the terror and the panic and the despair of moments previously. Smiling a little, he opened his eyes and drew back, Sam's head falling to rest against his shoulder.

Chick flick moment aside, Dean took a deep breath and began to check his brother for injuries. He glanced at the road where Sam had lain, hoping to God he wouldn't see the telltale red of blood. But there was nothing. Oddly, he felt more uneasy than relieved at this. Sam had been attacked by something. Why attack, and yet not inflict harm?

"Maybe…maybe the ghoulies finally decided to cut you a break, huh, kiddo?"

Dean muttered, feeling as though by maintaining some form of communication, Sam would wake up. That was starting to bother him, actually. If there was nothing technically wrong with Sam…and there wasn't, he was breathing, his heart was beating, and despite being a freakin' icicle he was fine…then why wasn't Sam awake and bitching at him for ignoring his warning about trucks?

Frowning in concern, Dean brushed his brother's hair out of his face and began to gently probe his skull for bumps or abrasions. Maybe Sam had concussion. He must have gotten one hell of knock, if he had simply fallen over.

_Or been pushed. _

Finding nothing, Dean let his hand remain buried in his brother's hair, confusion and some of his previous fear returning to him. Hesitating, he leant in closer to Sam's face, pleased to see some colour returning but a little disturbed to see no signs of awareness.

"Hey, Sammy? Can you hear me? C'mon, it can't be that hard to look at your big bro's gorgeous mug, can it?"

Dean joked, his smile faltering when Sam showed no signs of having heard him. He just wanted Sam to open his eyes, sit up and laugh at him, punch him in the shoulder and say 'gotcha'. But he didn't, and Dean gave his brother a slightly harder shake than he had before, again giving Sam a once over in case he had missed something.

"Sam? Please, just open your eyes, give me a sign, something. C'mon, man, joke over. Just leave me in the dark here."

Seconds passed, then minutes, and Dean's muscles began to cramp. Finally, he sighed softly, frowning. They had to get out of here; they were, after all, in the middle of a road, and the only road out of town, come to that. It was only a couple of miles back to the motel.

Dean's frown deepened. He didn't know when Sam had left the motel, but he was sure that his brother should have been able to get a lot further down the road than a few miles. Sammy was a decent runner. In fact, Sam probably should have been able to get all the way to town and into the restaurant in the time it took for Dean to eat his meal.

So why hadn't he?

A cold chill ran up and down Dean's spine. There _was_ something supernatural at work here. He could feel it. Something powerful; very powerful, if Dean's suspicions were correct. Which he hoped they weren't. But right now, he didn't have time to worry about that. Right now, he had to concentrate on getting Sam somewhere safe and figuring out what was wrong with him. And fast.

Pushing these thoughts and feelings to the back of his mind for later perusal, Dean wrapped one arm around his little brother's torso and knelt up, frowning as Sam's unresponsive limbs seemed to sprawl all over the place. He swallowed. It was so…unnatural for Sam to be so lifeless. If he wasn't afraid of going paranoid he would have checked his brother's pulse about five times already. As it was, he gritted his teeth and slowly managed to manoeuvre Sam into a more comfortable position, wrapping his free arm under his brother's knees and hoisting him up.

"You're gonna make me do this the sappy way, aren't ya? "

No response. Dean found, with some surprise, that he sorely missed the way that Sam would always smile at his jokes. Shaking his head, he sighed quietly.

"C'mon, Sammy. Work with me here, kiddo. Up you go."

He muttered, grunting as Sam's full weight made itself known to his already aching limbs. Once he was vaguely steady on his feet, he waited a moment to catch his breath, and began to make his painstaking way back to the impala, which was waiting patiently, door held invitingly open and headlights lighting the way. Dean smiled.

"That really was a close one, huh, Sammy? Well, at least the worst is over…"

He muttered to himself, setting about the arduous task of manoeuvring a 6'4 beanpole into a car designed for short people from the sixties.

Of course, knowing what he did about the strange, inexplicable workings of this world, Dean should have known better than to state something like that. In a situation where dire consequences appear to have been avoided, it is never advisable to openly imply that 'the worst is over'. Because you can bet your smug ass that it isn't. Irony doesn't take kindly to challenges.

And for Dean and Sam Winchester, their troubles were far from over. In fact, in retrospect and at the risk of sounding cliché, you could say that they had only just begun.

-----------------------------

**A/N: Well, I finally got around to the fluff. However…ugh! This entire chapter was an absolute nightmare to write! (No pun intended, Sammy!) So I hope it turned out alright. **

**Next chapter: Dean realizes his assumption that everything's hunky dory was somewhat off, while Sam faces further trials at the hands of his unknown assailant. Don't you just love Winchester angst? **

**Loved it? Hated it? Either way, leave a comment, please review! Thanks for reading! **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Well, after the most recent episode of Supernatural was postponed two weeks due to Thanksgiving (I think? I'm British, so what do I know, but I think that was why) and I was getting severe withdrawal symptoms. Finally tiring of watching my season one DVD's over and over, I dragged myself to my computer to create my own Supernatural magic. The wonders of Fanfiction! **

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, the Impala would be MINE and season two would be airing in the UK (drools)**

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic**

**IMPORTANT: Sam's POV is a little confusing; he's dreaming, so it seems a bit weird, but I'll try to make it as easy to understand as possible…damned canon character, running away with himself…(sighs)**

**8.**

He was lying on his back, gazing up with fascination at the brightly coloured shapes which swung lazily far above him. A large, yellow circle, like the thing that came to say hello to him through the window in the morning; the sun, Mommy would say, or something like that. But it didn't shine like the real sun. It was just a felt replica hanging from a…a stick-thingie…a mobile! And next to it, a half circle, pale and white, the moon. And star shapes as well, swirling around, around, around. He liked it.

He smiled widely as he came to this conclusion, and kicked his legs up in the air while gurgling by way of expressing his approval. Suddenly, the light clicked on, and he turned his head awkwardly to see the blurred shapes of Mommy, holding big brother (that was Sammy's special name for him; Daddy and Mommy just called him Dean, or son, or kiddo, but they called Sam those names, too, so big brother was Dean's _special _name) and saying something about 'good night'.

"Come on, let's say goodnight to your brother."

Sam giggled. He liked 'good night', too. Good night meant a kiss from Mommy and big brother and a special hug from Daddy. It was also called bedtime, because it was when you went to bed, except Sam didn't have a bed, just a cot. He wasn't big enough for a proper bed yet. Big brother was, though. It was a huuuuge wooden bed with a dark blue cover with stars on it. It smelled of big brother, too, so Sammy liked it even more. Sometimes big brother would let him lie on the bed with him, and maybe, if big brother was feeling especially nice, he would read Sam a story. Story time was almost as good as bedtime.

Sam blinks, and big brother jumps up onto the bars of the cot and leans over, with his mop of yellow hair (like the sun on the mobile, but not as bright, thankfully) and Mommy's eyes, smiling down at him. He looks like a giant from where Sam's lying, but he's not scared, because big brother would never, ever hurt him.

"Night Sam."

Big brother bends his head over, and Sammy smiles and gurgles appreciatively as he receives his first good night kiss, big brother's hair tickling his cheeks and big brother's smell all around him, making the room seem just that little bit less dark. Then, all of a sudden, big brother's gone, and Mommy leans down to give him her good night kiss, too.

"Good night, love."

She coos softly to him, and he makes a happy sound he knows she understands, and brings up a small hand to bat at her cheek and a long lock of sunlight hair. Then she too draws away, and Sammy's aware of another presence in the room, a familiar one. He waves his arms excitedly, although nobody's watching, and looks to the door.

"Hey Dean."

Big brother's face lights up, and Sammy, too, grins and kicks his legs again in greeting. Daddy had come for his good night. Daddy's good nights varied; sometimes Sammy got a hug, sometimes just a few soft words. He didn't mind, though.

"Daddy!"

Big brother disappears from sight, only to be swung up into Daddy's arms. Sam pouts, a little disgruntled, but knows that he'll get swung around when he's as big as big brother. Right now, he was too small to even walk and Daddy was always very careful with him.

"Hey buddy – woah!"

Daddy grunts, even though Sammy's sure big brother isn't all that heavy. Daddy was so strong he could probably lift the house if he wanted to! And big brother was very small in comparison to Daddy, which made Sammy absolutely tiny considering he was so much smaller than big brother. But he'd grow! One day he'd be way way way taller than big brother and he'd be able to look down at him! That would be funny.

"So whadd'ya think, ya think Sammy's ready to toss around a football yet?"

Dean gives Daddy a funny look, and Sam shares his confusion. Big brother had already tried playing with a ball, but all Sammy could do right now was bat at with his hands or kick it little. It made him sad, that he couldn't play properly with big brother yet.

"No, Daddy!"

Big brother exclaims, and Daddy echoes him, indicating that he was only joking.

"No."

Sammy watches them from the cot, as Daddy hugs big brother close to his chest, rubbing his back a little, and feels the smallest stab of…something. He's not sure why, but he feels a little sad, and scared, and suddenly the room seems a lot darker. He suddenly realises he doesn't want Daddy or Mommy or big brother to go because…because…

Because something bad was going to…

"You got him?"

Mommy looks at Daddy, briefly touching his arm, and something passes between them. Normally, the warmth in their gazes would give Sammy a nice, tingly feeling, but somehow, he only feels nervous.

"I got him."

Daddy stands still for a moment, cradling big brother, and there's a moment of peaceful silence. Daddy smiles at Sammy, and Sammy smiles back, struggling to see better between the bars of the cot.

"Sweet dreams, Sam."

Daddy turns, and big brother is peering over his shoulder, looking straight into Sammy's eyes. The light is flicked off, and the room is plunged into darkness, and Sam is momentarily afraid. But Dean's still looking at him as Daddy moves out of the door, and Sammy feels safer than he's ever felt, the threat of darkness and the _something _that seemed so close seeming not so scary anymore. Daddy rounds the corner, and although Sammy can no longer see him, he knows big brother is still there.

Big brother wouldn't ever let anything happen to him.

Content and satisfied, Sammy kicked his legs in the air once again, turning back to his perusal of the mobile above him, losing himself in the realms of his imagination, dancing among the sun and the moon and the stars in a world all of his own.

-----------------------------

Dean took one look at the state of the motel room, and felt like kicking something. Hard.

"Oh…man."

He sighed briefly, and adjusted his hold on Sam while taking in the extent of the damage. All of the bulbs in the lights had shattered, leaving the floor strewn with tiny fragments of glass. All of their 'stuff' including clothing, research documents, and all matter of junk was scattered haphazardly throughout the room. The table and chairs in the corner had been overturned, and the laptop was on the floor in the middle of the room, seemingly burst open but thankfully unharmed.

"What the _hell _happened here…"

He shook his head a little exasperatedly, and glanced down at his brother's still disturbingly expressionless face.

"You sure can pick 'em, can't ya, Sammy?"

Of course, there was no response; as if Dean had expected one. Still, he couldn't help but feel just a little disappointed. Pushing that particular issue to the back of his mind, he pulled Sam's right arm more securely around his shoulder, then hesitated, before rolling his eyes and wrapping the other under his brother's knees and hauling him up.

It was entirely necessary and manly, of course. Merely a matter of fraternal efficiency. The fact that he was carrying Sam over the threshold of the motel room like a freakin' bridal couple was totally _not _embarrassing or emasculating. Nope. Not at all.

…

Oh man, who was he kidding? Sam was going to pay _big _time just as soon as he was able to uphold a decent conversation. Grumbling, Dean made his way inside and shifted his brother's weight to a raised knee while he pulled the door shut and locked it behind them. Dignity no longer on display to the outside world, he shifted his brother higher on his chest and marched across the floor to Sam's bed as fast as he could without getting fragments of glass stuck in the soles of his shoes.

"I swear, Sam, if you make me endure one more of these Kodak moments I'm gonna eviscerate your CD collection with a carrot peeler…"

Ignoring the oddity of the threat, Dean carefully lowered Sam onto the bed with a gentleness which contradicted the gruff manner of his tone. He swallowed a little as Sam's head lolled over his elbow like some sort of rag doll, and hastily stepped back as soon as his brother was settled comfortably on top of the covers. He stood still for a moment, shivered, then put his mind to the task of clearing up as best he could. As he worked, he thought over the events of the night, frowning.

What sort of creature could cause this much chaos physically, with objects, but also manipulate the mind? But, more concerningly, how did it know how to construct a fake premonition for Sam? For that it would need to know all manner of things about them as a family, and Sam as an individual; it would have to _know _about the premonitions themselves in order to recreate one. It was also cunning enough to use Dean himself as a device; it must have known that Sam would panic if he had thought Dean was in danger. And that meant that whatever this thing was, it could delve into not only thoughts, but emotions and feelings, too.

Dean righted the desk with a grunt, and set about finding a dustpan and brush from the bathroom cupboard in order to clean up the glass. At least it couldn't manipulate emotions directly, it evidently needed some sort of stimulus for that, so it's control was limited…but it could evidently manipulate thoughts and mess with people's minds, and that was far more dangerous than simple poltergeist gig. Finding some of the broken glass to be imbedded further into the carpet than the brush could shake loose, Dean bent down and began hastily jerking the shards from the floor.

What exactly had happened, out on the road? If Sam wasn't physically hurt, why wouldn't he wake up?

Suddenly aware of how cold it was in the room, Dean rose and made his hesitantly over to where his brother was lying in exactly the same position Dean had left him in. He didn't look very comfortable. He still wore Dean's jacket, which gave his upper body a stiff look, and his boots had made the bottom of the bed damp. Dean drew in a breath, and crouched down carefully beside his brother's head, peering concernedly into Sam's face.

He was still very pale, but a little colour had drained back into his face, and his lips were no longer a sickening shade of blue. His hair was a little damp but had started to dry, curling itself into rebellious bangs which were stiff with perspiration. Dean frowned almost fondly at the mess which was his brother's fringe, and automatically reached out a hand to push it out of Sam's face. As his finger's touched his brother's temple he was aware that despite the fact Sam was no longer freezing, his skin was far too cool to be normal.

Swallowing uneasily, he put a gentle hand on his brother's collarbone by his neck and gave it a light shake.

"Hey, Sammy…it'd real nice if you could wake up right now. It's kinda boring holding a conversation with myself, no matter how intelligent and witty it is, y'know?"

He said, his voice hushed yet still reverberating horribly around the potently empty room. Not really expecting any kind of appreciation for his efforts, Dean sighed, and ran a hand through Sam's unruly mop in an attempt to neaten it before patting his brother on the shoulder and drawing back.

"Alright, jerk. Have it your way."

Dean had never been a very tactile person, but there was something about the way that Sam was lying there limp and corpse-like that made him want to maintain constant physical contact with him. maybe by way of hoping to get through to him, or maybe to just reassure himself that Sam was still here, that he was still breathing, his heart still beating. He supposed part of him was still lodged in that moment of utter terror when he had found Sammy out on the road…when he had thought that Sam might be-

"Oooookie dokie, you've been stinking up my jacket with your Sammy smell for way too long, kiddo. Off with it."

Dean said gruffly, supporting Sam's back with one hand while he struggled to wrestle his beloved leather jacket from his brother's lanky frame. It didn't really fit, because Sammy, although taller than Dean had much narrower shoulders. Dad had often commented that broad shoulders were the sign of a true man, but that was probably because he himself was blessed with more stock than height. Sam took after Mom's side of the family by way of body structure. Dean vaguely remembered that all of the various Uncle's and second cousin's twice removed or whatever from Mom's side had towered over Dad.

Tossing the jacket onto his own bed, Dean was glad to see that said item of clothing had protected Sam's shirt from getting wet, so there was no need to endure yet more one-sided awkwardness. The room was beginning to warm up now, and beyond the window the sky seemed to be clearing. Dean checked his watch, found it to be nearly one in the morning, and moved to the end of the bed.

"I'm gonna take your shoes off now, Sammy, okay?"

He said to his brother's unresponsive form, resolving to continue to speak to himself just because he was _Dean Winchester_ and because he could talk to himself like some kind of loony in a morgue if he wanted to, dammit. Glaring with rather unjustified loathing at the innocent shoelaces which were the subject of his emotional venting, he managed to remove his brother's shoes without further incident. He tossed them unconcernedly to the floor, dragged the now dirty covers from beneath Sam and piled them on his own pillow. Halfway through draping his own unspoiled covers over his brother, he suddenly realized that this was an unprovoked, entirely selfless and almost sickeningly considerate course of action, and promptly felt disgusted with himself.

He cast a wary glance at his brother, half expecting Sam to sit up, notice his bestest big brother's unprecedented show of kindness, go all dewy eyed and give him a care-bear hug. Actually, considering Sam was practically comatose right now, he wouldn't _really _mind all that much if he did, as long as he was awake.

Wait…

"Oh Jesus, God and Holy _fucking _Ghost, I did NOT just think that. I don't do hugs, hugging, or even manly embraces. Not even when I'm far gone pissed."

He stated loudly to the skeptical room. Not that he really knew what he did when he was far gone pissed. The most he had ever been able to get out of Sam on the infamous 'morning after' was a vague 'oh, well, it was an insightful experience, Dean.' Then a knowing and slightly sadistic chuckle. At those times, he often wisely decided not to press the issue, especially when Sam was looking at him like he had just won the Boy Scout raffle.

Averting his gaze, Dean drew back and felt something squishy flatten beneath his foot. Glancing down, he found 'Glisto' the cuddly toy bear was apparently intent upon making a point. Glisto was one of the large range of free toys which came with special packs of the 'Sparkle-supreme' wash care detergent they had used when they were young, and still did out of habit. For some reason Sam had deemed the toy too cute to simply throw out (despite the fact he had been sixteen years old at the time) and had carted it around with them ever since. Glisto usually lived in the bathroom, but during the chaos of the night had somehow managed to end up beside the bed, and subsequently Dean now had his foot in his stomach.

Dean scowled at it with disgust, hastily removing his foot from contact with the embodiment of all snugglyless, and folded his arms defensively. The bear only continued to stare smugly up at him, silently accusing.

"I am **not **going soft."

The smirking fabric-softener teddy bear begged to differ.

-----------------------------

Sammy was first aware that something was wrong when the little aeroplane pendulum above the clock on the wall suddenly stopped moving. The cheerful ticking which had been lulling him into a contented sleep ceased immediately, and the room seemed cold. Confused, he turned his head, balling his small hands into fists and bringing them to his chest. A chill breeze sent the mobile above him spinning, and the tinny notes of a lullaby began to play, then seemed to hesitate, and fell silent.

Sammy whimpered quietly as the light on the wall began to flicker, and glanced around frantically for a sign of Mommy, or Daddy, or big brother, but he was alone. Frightened, he began to whimper a little louder, hoping that Mommy would come; she always did if he made enough noise. Clenching his eyes tightly shut he kicked his feet and rolled his head from side to side, desperately wishing he could form the words which would make help come, but he couldn't. He didn't know how.

"…'omma…"

He managed to force past un-cooperative lips, calling out to Mommy. Opening his eyes, Sam peeked out at the small, white device which was attached to the edge of his cot; it flashed red briefly, and Sam, encouraged, decided to try again:

"Mo-ma!"

A shadow fell across him, and Sam looked up, expecting to find Mommy looking down at him with a gentle smile and hopefully a bottle of milk. He frowned as his eyes traveled up a body too big for Mommy, dressed in black rather than white, to a face high, high above him. He jerked in fright.

From a face hidden in shadow, two dark, narrowed yellow eyes gazed down at him with the sort of look Sam had seen next door's cat look at a dead mouse. Too terrified to move or make a sound, Sam heard soft footsteps coming across the landing, and his heart soared at the sound of Mommy's voice:

"John? Is he hungry?"

Sammy blinked in surprise. No, Mommy, this wasn't Daddy! This was a bad, bad man! The yellow eyes flashed, and Sam tried to open his mouth, articulate some form of cry, to call out, but found he couldn't. Something indefinable was silently choking him, and quite suddenly, he felt like crying. Feeling a stab of desperate frustration, he managed to force a strangled squeak past his burning throat.

"Shhhh."

The figure cooed harshly, and Mommy was turning and leaving.

"Okay."

Sammy gulped dryly, rocking from side to side nervously as the figure bent lower over the cot, yellow eyes narrowing. In the pale light of the moon spilling through the window, he saw it smile.

-----------------------------

"…mo…m…"

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin as the hoarse, disjointed whisper of his brother's voice cut through the silence. He half-stumbled, half-leapt across the room and knelt unsteadily down beside Sam's head, eyes roving over his face. The smallest of frowns furrowed his brother's brow, and his mouth was twisted into a slight grimace, but apart from that he appeared not to have moved at all. Dean swallowed, and for what felt like the millionth time that day, reached out and shook Sam's shoulder lightly.

"Sammy…hey, you awake buddy?"

Nothing. Not a twitch. Frustrated as the hope which had been swelling in his chest faded a little, Dean shook Sam a little harder.

"Sammy…Sammy!"

-----------------------------

"Sammy…Sammy!"

Mommy's voice, and a stumbling sound of footsteps up the stairs, on the landing, outside the door. Sammy felt some small relief, then, immediately, fear. No, Mommy, this isn't right…the bad man was going to do something…this was the bad thing he had felt when Daddy and big brother had left…stay away, Mommy, please, stay away…

Mommy gasped, then she suddenly slammed back into the wall. Sammy made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, staring in fear and confusion as Mommy rose up to the ceiling until she was right above him, pinned, her golden hair splayed out around her head like a halo; she would have looked like an angel if her face wasn't twisted in terror. Sammy smiled a tiny bit, and giggled; Mummy was acting very funny. It was silly to go up to the ceiling, that was all upside down, the wrong way up. When Mommy's face began to turn white, Sammy whimpered, unable to tear his eyes away from Mommy's wide, dark, petrified ones. He didn't like this. No, this had to stop. He wanted the game to stop. He didn't want to play anymore.

_I am the playful one, and you are my toy._

"S…Sammy…no…please…"

The dark man chuckled, then began to fade, and Sammy clenched his eyes tightly shut as Mommy let out a blood curdling scream. Sammy had never heard her make a noise like that before, and it scared him. Why was Mommy scaring him? He peeked his eyes open to see her, pale faced and breathing hard, dark red staining her nightgown.

"MARY?!"

Daddy's voice came from far away, and Sammy rocked desperately, looking around for the dark figure but seeing nothing. Thundering footsteps came up the stairs, and the door flew open with a bang, making Sammy flinched. Sweet, cool relief filled him when Daddy came in, skidding to a halt. Daddy looked around, then came over to Sammy, and smiled. Sammy smiled back. That meant everything was okay. Daddy was here and Daddy would stop Mommy from being silly.

"Hey, Sammy…you okay?"

The mobile started to turn again, and the tinny notes made Sammy feel nervous. It still wasn't right. Even though Daddy was here he wasn't helping Mommy and Mommy was still acting silly, and Sammy wanted it to stop. He wanted it all to stop.

_So, Sammy…_

"No! **MARY**!"

_Let's play!_

Sammy's world exploded into blinding white light and hot, putrid heat. Opening his mouth wide he screeched in terror, scrunching up his face and flailing his arms as he felt the oppressiveness of the fire press down on him. Suddenly, he was swung up, and he felt sick.

"Daddy!"

Big brother had come. Sammy immediately stopped crying, and took in a deep, gulping breath of air. His cheeks felt hot and his eyes were stinging, but his chest felt horribly cold. Mommy was on fire. On the ceiling. Why? Did Mommy hate him? Did she not love him anymore? Why was she leaving?

"Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don't look back!"

Sammy was pushed to big brother's chest, and he swallowed, staring up at big brother's face. Big brother looked…scared. Sammy kept as still and quiet as he could, not wanting to make Dean more scared than he was. Mommy had been scared, and Mommy was leaving. Maybe she'd already left, maybe she'd be gone by the time Daddy went back for her. That was Sammy's fault. If he hadn't cried maybe Daddy would have stayed and saved Mommy.

"Now, Dean, go!"

Daddy was shouting. Now he'd made Daddy angry, too. Then Daddy was gone, and they were running down the stairs, out of the door, out into the cold and the dark. Sammy couldn't look up at the house, at the red and gold and orange and yellow heat that spilled out of the windows. He could only stare up at big brother, keeping as still as possible, willing big brother to do something, to say something, to make Daddy come out, to make Mommy come back. But big brother only stood, and Sammy could feel big brother tremble, could feel big brother's hands shake beneath the blanket and his chest heave with quickened, terrified breaths.

"It's okay, Sammy."

Sam's world began to mutate, spiral into darkness, the house fading, the heat of the fire growing cold, the darkness pressing closer and closer and closer.

No, it wasn't ok. He'd made big brother sad and he'd made Daddy angry and he'd made Mommy leave. Mommy was gone and then Daddy was gone and then it was only big brother and him, all alone on the road, and then Jess was gone too and now they couldn't find Dad and they didn't know where he was and then Dean had died…no, Dean had been _murdered_ by this _thing _and then there was darkness and rain and fear and cold and despair…

IkilledherDeanIkilledherIkilledherbigbrotherOhGodNoMomJessIkilledMomIkilledherDeanIkilledthemOhGod…

Samuel Winchester opened his eyes, shot upright with an unnatural jerk and screamed.

-----------------------------

**A/N: If you remember, there was a small reference by Dean to Cassie about the night of the fire:**

"**Thing was…Sammy wasn't crying. He wasn't howling like he should have been, wasn't even moving, squirming like he usually did. He was just staring at me, with these huge eyes, like he was looking to me to do something. And he knew. I could tell he knew she…Mom…was dead." _Dean, chapter five._**

**(winks) So, now we have both sides of the story. Goodness me, I wonder how many more references have already been planted? Better go back and check…**

**Next chapter: Detective Protective (Dean) gets his appropriately knitted thinking cap on, and Sam angsts in a half-conscious and lethargic fashion. Neither the boys nor the author seem to have any clue what is going on!**

**Craving a few more buckets of brotherly fluff? Review! Feeling generous enough to give feedback? Review! Want the author to shut up and get writing? REVIEW! **

**Thanks for reading:)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: (bounces up and down in a rage) OOOOOH! KRIPKE YOU ARE SO DEAD! (seethes) So, following Mr 'I'masmartassdirectorwhothinksit'sfunnytotorturepeoplewithcliffies' little cliffhanger at the end of 'Croatoan', I just had to vent some supernatural frustration. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, the Impala would be MINE and season two would be airing in the UK (drools)**

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic**

**9.**

When the blood-curdling scream filled the room, Dean was so shocked he actually tripped and fell. His mind was halfway through processing the thought that this was both highly embarrassing and very un-Dean like, when he realised the source of the noise was a wide eyed and petrified looking Sam, sitting bolt upright in bed, the most in-human sound coming from his mouth.

For a moment, he could only watch, frozen, as Sam began to writhe and struggle in the sheets which were now tangled around him, a desperate expression twisting his features. Suddenly, he overbalanced, and tumbled off the bed with a small yelp and a heavy thud.

Quiet, except for his brother's heavy breathing. Something snapped, and Dean jolted out of his stupor to scramble to his feet and barrel his way hastily over to the other side of the bed.

"Sammy? Jesus, you okay?"

Sam was still extremely pale, and his eyes seemed to be having trouble focusing on the world around him. He lay still, seemingly stunned by the fall from the bed, gulping in shallow, quick breaths. Dean dropped to his knees beside him, sighed, and started to carefully free his brother's limbs from the knot of covers which ensnared him.

"You've got yourself in a right tangle…hang on…"

He muttered, pulling one of Sam's arms free while gently hauling his brother upright. Sam blinked, and looked confused for a brief moment, his eyes roving over Dean's face. Suddenly, he jerked violently, gasping, and hurled himself sideways away from his brother. Dean jumped too, startled for the second time in so many seconds (this was getting to be a habit) and was taken aback by the fearful look his brother was giving him.

Fearful and un-recognising.

Dean reached for Sam, something cold and heavy filling his stomach, and Sam whimpered and batted his hands away. Dean gritted his teeth, fear and frustration making him grasp his brother's shoulders despite Sam's struggles. Sam continued to fight him, and Dean shook him as gently as he could without loosing his grip, trying to catch his brother's eye.

"Woah woah woah, hey! Sam? Sammy!"

Dean felt a stab at hurt as Sam continued to look at him as though he was some sort of monster. His whole life, Sammy had never once looked at him like that. As though he expected Dean to actually _hurt _him. And why didn't he seem to recognise him? Dean clenched his jaw and wrapped his arms around his brother's torso from behind as Sam made to get up and make a break for it, grunting as his brother's flailing arms hit him in the chest and face. Dammit, when had Sam gotten so strong? Although, he had always been a wriggly little kid. Always managing to wiggle his way out of almost all the headlocks Dean had given him, of which there were plenty.

Pinning his brother's arms to his sides and drawing Sam back against his chest, Dean crushed his little brother to him, momentarily draining the fight from him, but it only seemed to make Sam panic more. Dean could hear the rattling breath in his brother's chest, and felt the frustration and adrenaline fade as he felt the trembles which wracked Sam's lanky form. He loosened his hold a little and leant down to speak firmly in Sam's ear:

"Sam! Snap out of it! Sammy! You hearin' me? Calm down! Sam!"

Sam continued to shake uncontrollably, gasping for breath, and seemed close to hyperventilating. Dean could smell cold sweat and the musty trace of rain in his brother's hair, and moved Sam away from him, maintaining a firm hold on his shoulders. After a moment of hesitation, he manoeuvred Sam to face him, keeping his movements slow so as not to startle him. When Sam's glazed eyes finally met his own he tried to force as much comfort into his gaze as he tried again to reason with his distraught sibling:

"Hey, it's me! I'm not going to hurt you. C'mon, Sammy, pull it together kiddo, it's **me.** You had a dream. Okay? Whatever it was, it wasn't real. Understand? It.was.not.real."

He emphasised each word, speaking softly but firmly. Sam seemed to calm a little, although Dean was not sure whether Sam knew who he was. The tension fled from his brother's body, and Sam slumped down, his head bowed and hair falling into his eyes, concealing his face. Concerned, Dean gently squeezed his brother's shoulders. For a moment, they sat in silence except for their harsh, erratic breathing.

"Was real."

Sam muttered hoarsely, and Dean was so glad to hear his brother's voice, he didn't bother to try to reason with him further. He briefly rubbed the crevice between Sam's sharp shoulder blades, pleased when it seemed to ease his brother's breathing, then slid his hands under Sam's arms and carefully pulled him to his feet. He then began to slowly manoeuvre Sam back onto the bed, propped up against the headboard.

"C'mon, up you get. The floors not the most comfortable of places…there you go, kiddo. You alright?"

Sam did not answer, but seemed stiffly accepting of Dean's helping hands. He refused to look at his brother, however, which unnerved Dean a little. Dean fussed for a few moments, stuffing a pillow behind his brother's back and dumping the covers haphazardly back over Sam's legs, before lowering himself gingerly down onto the edge of the bed. He studied his brother's profile, the clasped hands, white knuckled from pressure, and the slight shake to a seemingly boneless frame.

He sighed, and drew a few deep, calming breaths for himself.

"What was it, Sammy? Vision? Premonition?"

He asked, quietly, as though Sam was a frightened animal about to bolt. He certainly seemed to be acting that way. His eyes drank in the extent of the room, flicking sluggishly from crevice to crevice, always avoiding meeting Dean's gaze. There was still a slightly blank, confused look in his eyes which made his emotions difficult to read. His features betrayed no suspicions or anger, though, only fear and confusion. Almost like a young child suddenly thrown into a foreign environment.

When Sam showed no intention of answering his question – Dean was under the impression he hadn't even heard him – Dean waved a hand before his brother's line of vision. Sam blinked, then his eyes began to follow the hand as it swung from side to side in the most unnervingly curious way. It was strikingly reminiscent of when Dean had amused his baby brother with conkers attached to the end of strings on long afternoons, rather like a cat and a ball of string.

Thoroughly disconcerted, Dean stilled his hand and allowed it to fall to the side of his brother's neck, trying to get Sam to focus on him rather than taking in what he obviously though was the far more interesting sight of the trashed motel room (Dean wondered if he should be insulted by this, but quickly dismissed the notion in favour of being freaked out).

"Hey, look at me! Talk to me. C'mon, Sammy."

Sam ceased in his frantic perusal of the surroundings, and slowly turned his head to look at Dean. He blinked, then frowned and squinted, taking in every aspect of Dean's features with meticulous scrutiny. Dean inwardly squirmed under the intensity of his brother's gaze, and fought to keep his face schooled into a mask of indifference, betraying nothing. After a few agonising moments, Sam cocked his head to the side and asked slightly hoarsely but with perfect innocence:

"Where's big brother?"

Dean had never thought it was possible to choke on your own breath, and the discovery of this particularly fact did nothing to enlighten him to the wonders of the human physique and its capabilities to be inconvenient. He stared disbelievingly into his brother's face, but Sam only continued to frown in confusion, the blankness in his gaze indicating that he was apparently deadly serious.

"…come again?"

Dean managed to wheeze out, feeling like he had taken a blow to the stomach. What the hell? Sam was acting like…some kind of toddler…or somebody who had their brain wiped clean with only a single fact left. But that didn't explain why Sam didn't seem to recognise him…

While Dean grappled internally, Sam glanced once more around the room, before quietly repeating his question:

"Where's Dean?"

Dean wondered, not for the first time in his life, why God seemed to have some kind of grudge against him. Whatever the Big Guy's problem was, Dean wished he would just get over it already and maybe lend a hand every once in a while. However, with no help forthcoming, Dean felt his brain short-circuit and provide him with the following eloquent system backup response:

"…uh…"

Dean cleared his throat, and pinched the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long, deep, calming breath. He then let it out slowly, willing himself to remain sane. He kneaded his brow, trying to dispel the growing ache, before allowing his hands to drop to his lap and fixing his confused, evidently clueless little brother with a piercing yet remarkably steady gaze.

"Sammy…I **am **Dean. Remember?"

He said, as casually but with as much significance as he could. Sam blinked, then shivered as though a wave of shock had physically gone through him. His eyes glazed over further, and he appeared to be searching his mind like some kind of computer. Slowly, he reached his hands up to clutch each side of his head, eyes wide with realisation. Dean shuffled tentatively closer, trying to translate the myriad of different emotions which seemed to flick across his brother's face like a loading screen.

"…oh. Oh…yeah."

Sam whispered quietly, then flinched, ducking his head and moaning in pain.

"Ooooooooh…shit…ow…"

Dean hesitated, then patted Sam carefully on the shoulder to get his attention. Sam glanced up, still clearly in pain but managing to look a bit pissed off at the same time, but Dean was so glad to see Sam acting like himself that he couldn't really bring himself to care.

"Sam, how old are you?"

Sam considered, frowned, and rubbed his temple vigorously as a spasm of pain clearly leapt across his skull.

"Twenty…three?"

He muttered, a little uncertainly. Dean nodded, immediately reverting to business mode as Sam grew less lucid.

"Right. Good. Now, are you feeling alright? Pain in your head? Nauseous? Ache anywhere?"

Sam shook his head, then winced.

"Um…no. No, I don't think so. I've just got a bit of a headache."

Sam coughed briefly, and shook his head again, blinking and attempting to focus properly. Dean felt a very familiar sense of unease fill the pit of his stomach, and clasped his brother's chin, turning his head carefully first left, then right. Sam rolled his eyes briefly, then obediently kept his eyes trained on his brother's while Dean scrutinised him for signs of concussion. Dean made a doctor-esque 'hmm' noise, then rested his other hand on Sam's forehead, senses tingling as he compared the warmth he found there with that of his own hand. Sam endured the fraternal manhandling with a half-exasperated, half-fond patience, knowing that Dean would get pissy if denied his post-worry paranoia.

Eventually Dean drew back, feeling simultaneously relieved and inexplicably troubled.

"You seem okay. If anything, you're still a little too cool. What was it, Sammy?"

Sam rubbed at his eyes in a surprisingly childish manner, then yawned, before answering in a quiet, hazy tone:

"What was what?"

Dean wasn't sure whether pressing Sam to relive the previous night was the best move, but he knew if he spent another few hours not knowing what had happened, not knowing whether his brother was okay, then he was going to kill something. Painfully. Well, that was going to happen anyway, but that was besides the point. Dean sighed.

"The dream, Sam. The dream. What was it about? You were screaming the house down, man."

Sam looked thoroughly confused.

"I was?"

Dean nodded darkly.

"Yeah, you were."

Sam ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and absently rubbed at his face. A heavy exhaustion seemed to descend upon him and weigh him down, so that he physically seemed to slump. It appeared he was still a little out of it, as he seemed to struggle to construct his speech, as though it was foreign to him. He stumbled over the words as he spoke:

"Oh. Yeah, I guess I was. Um…dream?"

-----------------------------

Sam Winchester's already severely addled brain was suddenly assaulted with a blinding torrent of emotions and words and sounds and feelings. He flinched and opened his mouth, but no sound was forthcoming as his eyes processed a familiar and still painfully fresh vision:

_The truck careened onto the main road, colliding with the Impala with a deafening explosion of metal on metal. Gasoline leaked in rivulets from the crumpled wreck which was the back of the Impala. The Impala with Dean still in it._

_**NO!**_

Somewhere somebody cried out, and it took a moment for Sam to realise it was him. Warm hands and soothing, meaningless words slunk sluggishly through the haze of pain, and he was aware of that soft, glowing light which slowly defined itself into a person. The room was spinning and it seemed as though Dean's worried features were contorting in and out of focus.

Dean?

Sam stiffened and grabbed his brother's shoulders so hard he could feel the bones creaking beneath his hands. Brittle. Breakable. But so wonderfully alive and warm and free of blood.

"Dean! The truck, the impala, you…are you okay? You're not hurt are you? It was…there was…this shadow, and then, just blood, everywhere, and this song it carried on playing even though you died and…"

Endless streams of useless words poured from his mouth as he desperately tried to convey what he was seeing into words, to make Dean understand, to rid himself of just a little bit of the weight which seemed to pressing in, crushing him from all sides. The truck, the impala, Dean, dead…Dean alive, here, now, in front of him…dead…

Red and black began to swirl, press in, engulf him in cold, when a sharp voice cut through the confusion.

"Hey hey hey, watch it, calm down! I'm fine, the thing didn't hit me, just sailed straight on past. Looks like your shining isn't so shiny. You might wanna give it a polish now and then."

Everything was Dean. Dean's voice, Dean's blood, Dean dead, Dean alive, Dean's hands on his neck, Dean's eyes imploring him, begging, scared. That scared him. Nothing ever scared Dean. He didn't want to scare Dean, didn't want to hurt him. He didn't want Dean to die.

"You almost got hit by a truck."

The words resounded around the inside of his head, around and around until he felt sick with fear. Almost was the operative word. Almost. Too close. Too near a miss. Sam vaguely noted Dean giving him a winning smile, rolling his eyes.

"Yeeeah, but I didn't. Can we focus on the now, please? Sam? You listening?"

The room had stopped spinning. Sam watched as the two Dean's he was peering concernedly into his face merged into one being, and focused upon him.

"Hm?"

He inquired, and his voice sounded weak, even to him. Dean seemed to notice, too, as he gave Sam a disbelieving look, then pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a deep breath. Sam squirmed uncomfortably.

"You know what? Never mind."

Dean muttered, running a hand distractedly through his hair. Sam simply sat and watched as his brother shifted so that he was sitting directly in his line of sight. He felt strangely…empty. Not harshly, emotionally empty, just…empty empty. Cold. His thoughts were sluggish, and patches of grey haziness fogged his brain. He didn't like it. It was almost as though he wasn't in control of his own mind.

"Sam. I'm going to ask you a question. Okay?"

Sam nodded, a little put-out by the way Dean was speaking to him as though speaking to a particularly dense three-year-old.

"…okay."

Dean cleared his throat, cast his eyes nervously around the room, before continuing to speak in the annoyingly slow and steady tone which contradicted the clear jumble of emotions in his eyes.

"Last night, I went out. You tried to ring me a few times, after you had a premonition about me being hit by a trunk. Then you left the hotel. With me so far?"

Sam thought back. Yes, he did remember that. He could recall leaving a few messages, setting out onto the open road…then…

Then nothing. And the premonition? He could only remember a collection of feelings and colours, and most prominently, pain. But everything was hazy around that area. However, he didn't want Dean looking at him any more weirdly than he already was, so for the sake of sanity, he simply nodded again as firmly as he could.

"Yeah."

He managed, a little stiffly. Dean raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, and Sam straightened his back defiantly in face of the unspoken scepticism. Dean hesitated, fixing Sam with an intense stare, and said carefully:

"Do you remember what happened after that?"

No, he wanted to say. No, I don't, and I wont remember. He couldn't. But he could, could feel the shaky barriers between then and now beginning to thin, creak, tendrils of the pain and the cold beginning to seep into the present. Suddenly, he was back there, hearing himself narrate over the tragic comedy, running, so hard and so fast and with so many emotions pounding through his aching frame he felt he might simply snap from the pressure.

"There…there was…this…I was…really cold. Raining. I didn't like it, I…don't like thunder and lightning and rain…and then there was… "

His own voice laughed in imitation of the childlike voice which had taunted him, as he was unable to express its power through words alone. He blinked, trying to dispel the blurry sting of rain which did not exist in his eyes. Pain. Pain and fear and cold. That was all he could remember. That was all.

"Were you attacked by something?"

_A large, yellow circle, like the thing that came to say hello to him through the window in the morning._

Slowly, the corners of Sam's lips lifted somewhere far away from where he was, and he smiled dazedly.

"Sun and moon and stars. They were spinning."

_A body too big for Mommy, dressed in black rather than white._

"Sam?"

_She would have looked like an angel if her face wasn't twisted in terror_. _Dark red staining her nightgown a deep, dangerous crimson. Danger._

"Rain. Then dark and cold. Yellow eyes and fire. Mommy was being silly."

_He was running, harder and faster than he had ever run before. Mommy was on the ceiling. Rain. Blood on the ceiling. Rain on the road. _

"Wha…Sammy…did you say – _Mom?"_

A flash of childish annoyance, the briefest glimpse of concerned green eyes and warm hands.

"Don't be silly, Dean. You remember. You were there. You saw, didn't you? Mommy on the ceiling. Blood dripping. My fault. Mine. Fire and cold."

And dark, deep, emptiness…that too. Rather like…how he felt…now…he could remember falling down into black…or was it just that that was what he was doing…now? Falling…ring a ring a roses…we all fall down…in the end…

High above him, warm, familiar hands catch his body as it falls.

_Let's play!_

"Hey, Sammy? No, don't close your eyes, kiddo. C'mon. Stay awake, don't go comatose on my ass again…Sam!"

For the smallest of moments, his lips once again become his own.

"…cold…"

He couldn't see the light or feel the warmth anymore.

"SAMMY!"

The plea fell upon deaf ears, as Sam once again fell down, far, far down into a world where he held no power and where there was no warmth. And that laugh. There was that laugh again.

_See, Sammy? I told you, didn't I? If you play my games, you play by my rules._

-----------------------------

**A/N: Sam's odd behaviour…immediately following the flashback, his mental state was still somewhat in the form of his baby self, and it took a while for him to re-adjust, which is why he was acting oddly. Sorry if that wasn't very clear!**

**Wow, this fic is moving slow…hopefully next chapter something will actually happen to move the plot along…**

**Next chapter: Dean swallows his pride and calls on some re-enforcements, while Sam indulges in another not-so-rose tinted memory…or nightmare. **

**IMPORTANT QUESTION: Now, I want to bring a third party character into this story, but I'm not sure who it should be, so I'd like all your opinions! Who should Dean call for help:**

**Pastor Jim**

**Missouri**

**Or Papa Winchester?**

**If you could let me know, that'd be great! Also, all your reviews are so encouraging, so please keep it up! Thanks for reading:)**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Wow, thanks for the fantastic response, you guys! I seriously could not write this story if it wasn't for y'all (sniffles). And extra special thanks to all those who voted, as well! Now, for the results of the voting!**

**John: 15 votes**

**Missouri: 9 votes**

**Pastor Jim: 6 votes**

**Well, I figured since John and Missouri were both so popular I'd just have them both in. And, as I have a soft spot for Pastor Jim (he just seemed like such a NICE guy in the series!) I'll also pop him in too, indirectly. You'll just have to read and see!**

**10.**

It wasn't right, really. It didn't make any sense. It was the middle of Winter, at that time of year where Mother Nature dithered in indecision between snow and rain, so moisture steamed up the windows and icicles formed daggers of trapped water from drainpipes. Four-year old Sam Winchester usually wouldn't mind the cold, because it meant snowmen and Christmas and maybe even a tree with sparkling baubles on it. Not today.

Dean was sick.

Not icky throwing up kind of sick, though. Really sick. He alternately burnt and froze, but shivered regardless. Shivered so hard Sam could swear he could hear the teeth rattling around inside his big brother's skull. When he burnt, his skin was so hot that Sam was sure he must be on fire, although he couldn't see any flames. Sam was frightened. He didn't like fire. A fire took Mom, and he didn't want one to take Dean, too. He wished Daddy was here. He didn't understand. He didn't know what to do.

On the bed, Dean moaned and shifted, and Sam turned from the window to look fearfully across the room. Earlier that day, Dean had pressed a hand against the steamy moisture which fogged up the pane of glass and made a handprint there. Grinning, he had said he had made his mark. Sam liked to put his own hand inside the now fading print. His fingertips barely touched the edges of his brother's palm. He hated being little.

"Da..d…?"

Dean called out hoarsely in that horrible, scratchy voice that made Sam shudder. But he didn't blame Dean, not really. He knew he didn't mean it, couldn't help it. People did weird things when they were sick.

Sam shrugged his bony shoulders further into the warm sweater which was (like so many other things he owned) once Dean's, and therefore far too big for him. He liked them that way, though. They were big and warm and smelt like Dean.

He slid carefully from the window ledge and hurried across the room to stand beside the bed. The top of the mattress reached up to his waist, but at least he could reach across the covers to touch his brother. He bit his lip, gazing in fearful awe at the sheen of sweat which covered Dean's bare skin, and the usually pale freckled cheeks flushed an unhealthy red. Sam hesitated, then reached over, placing a small, cool hand against Dean's hair, wrinkling his nose when he found it to be sticky beneath his palm.

Dean whimpered, and turned his face towards his little brother, who started. Sam licked his dry lips and swallowed.

"Dean?"

Dean frowned, eyes roving beneath shadowed eyelids, and shifted his arm towards the source of the warmth seeping into the covers. His fingers found the coarse fabric of his little brother's arm, and he wrapped a shaking hand around it, as though anchoring himself to reality. Sam could feel the terrible burn of his brother's skin even through his sweater, and placed the hand that was not on his brother's hair over Dean's.

"Da..d…Dad…"

Sam's face fell, and he shook his head vigorously from side to side, even though he knew Dean could not see him, feeling a little frantic. And guilty. Dean wanted Dad, of course he did. He wouldn't want Sammy, not right now. But that was okay. Sam wanted Dad, too.

"I sorry, Dean…Daddy's not here."

Sam pulled his brother's limp hand away from his arm, managing to smile a little when the long fingers wrapped themselves around his own palm. Dean's hand was so large in comparison to his that they could actually encircle Sam's entire hand and wrist. Sam folded his other hand over the back of Dean's so that his brother's hand was clasped between his, mimicking what Dean had done for him all the times when he had been sick or hurt. Thinking back, that had been quite a few times. But never to Dean. Nothing ever hurt Dean, at least, not like this. Not without Dad around.

Dean ceased to shift uneasily, and seemed to sink back into the mattress, relaxing a little. Still, he did not wake, and Sam could have sworn the skin touching his own was pulsing with heat which only grew more intense. Sam jumped up so his stomach acted as a balance on the edge of the bed, then used his feet to wriggle up onto it. Climbing onto his knees, he edged up to the pillow and sat close to Dean's head, staring unblinkingly into his brother's flushed features.

"Dean, you're scaring me. Please wake up."

Dean would never, ever scare him on purpose, if he could help it. He had told Sam so. Apart from that time with fake spider in the bathtub, but that had been a joke. Sam hadn't thought it was very funny at the time, and Dean had gotten a long lecture from Dad for doing it…but afterwards his brother had seemed genuinely sorry, given him an apologetic hug and had even read Sam a bedtime story. Dean didn't seem to want to do those things very much anymore.

Sam sighed, and wriggled down so that he was lying right up close to Dean's side on top of the covers. Staring up at Dean's far from peaceful expression, he closed his eyes and leant his forehead against his brother's burning neck.

"You're all hot and shaky. I don't like it, Dean. It's all wrong and I don't like it."

He murmured, and Dean shivered at the cold breath against his skin. Sam leant up on his elbows, willing Dean to wake up, sit up, tell him it was okay. He was scared. Dean always made it better when he was scared. He knew he owed it to Dean to look after him, protect him, but he felt so little and inadequate. He couldn't possibly do as good a job as Dean always did. And he was afraid he would let Dean down.

"Tell me what to do. I don't know what to do. Dean?"

Sam felt his throat close up and begin to burn. It hurt to swallow. His chest was tight and he could feel hot moisture building behind his eyes. Feeling inexplicably angry, Sam slammed his fists down on the covers, leant down and shouted as loud as he could in his brother's ear:

"_DEAN_!"

Dean jerked so hard his fist came flying out and smacked Sam across the temple, sending his little brother flying down into the mattress, thankfully not toppling off the bed. Dean groaned, kicked his legs and writhed horribly, twisting the covers around him, then doubled over his stomach. Sam could only watch in shock and horror as Dean seemed to fold his body into the smallest ball possible, his thin frame wracked by shudders.

Sam felt sick and dizzy with guilt, an acidic, condemning burn biting into his chest. Feeling something cold sliding down his cheeks, he made a strangled sound of frustration and anger and terror and threw himself into Dean's back, pressing his skull into the small hollow between his brother's shoulder blades, spouting the mantra 'I sorry' over and over until he feared it would be branded into his tongue.

"I sorry. I made it worse. I sorry. I don't…I don't know…"

He began to tremble with Dean, dry sobs filling the humid air as he rocked back and forth, thin arms snaking around Dean's chest and holding on as tightly as he dared.

"Dean, please wake up. Please, please, please. I'll be good, I promise. I won't take your toys or call you mean names or tell Daddy on you. Just wake up. Please?"

Damp began to soak through Dean's shirt, and Sam could taste salt on his tongue. He winced. Copper too. He must have bitten his tongue. He tentatively ran his tongue around his teeth, wincing at the stab of pain which filled his mouth. He swallowed, trying desperately not to gag. His heart was beating so loudly and so fast that he could swear Dean must be able to hear it.

Dean's own heart beat sounded horribly slow, pulsing through his skin like a heat wave. A regular beat to the fluttering of Sam's racing heart.

"Please don't die big brother…"

He murmured, so quietly it was almost lost in the noisy rush of blood in the two bodies lying so closely together. No, no, no. It was all wrong. Horribly, terribly, wrongly wrong. Dean wasn't supposed to be like this. Sam had to make it better. But how? How, how, how? He didn't know what to do. He never knew what to do.

What would Dean do?

_If I'm not back by Sunday…?_

Sam frowned as his father's voice filled his head, inquiring of him, even though Sam knew he was not addressing his younger son. What, he thought? Tell me what to do.

_Call Pastor Jim's._

Dean replied, the answer echoing around Sam's head. It seemed, even like this, Dean was still here. Sam nodded to himself, and rested his cheek briefly against his brother's warm shoulder, the heat now feeling somehow more comforting and encouraging than hostile. His lips twitched, and he clenched a shaking fist, rubbing it against his wet eyes and cheeks, sniffling.

"Thank you Dean."

Dean did not reply, and, although it may have been Sam's imagination, he could have sworn he saw his brother's lips twitch upwards in the shadow of a smile. Sam beamed, leant down, and pressed a brief kiss to his big brother's flushed cheek, before sitting up and frowning in thought.

After a moment, he slid carefully from the stiflingly warm sheets until his bare feet touched the coarse surface of the carpet, then lowered himself to the floor. He stood unsteadily, one hand still fisted tightly in the cotton of Dean's shirt, and scanned the room for the telephone. Spotting it by the door, attached high on the wall, Sam swallowed. It was too high. Even if he jumped, he would never be able to reach it.

Dean shuddered violently and moaned again, and Sam released his brother's shirt as though he had been stung. Biting down hard on his lower lip, he clasped his hands tightly together while he thought as hard as he could. He needed a step. Or something he could stand on to reach the phone. He glanced around the room, desperately searching for something light yet strong enough to serve as a phone-stand. After a few minutes of frantic searching, his gaze fell upon the large metal trash can which stood in the corner of the room.

He hurried over to it, and leaned down to see it was empty. Good. Dad would get mad if he had had to tip rubbish all over the floor. Clasping the cold metallic rim of the trash can, he dragged it over to the door and hastily upturned it, wincing at the resounding clang that made Dean groan and shift a little. Suppressing his guilt for the sake of urgency, he clambered gingerly up onto it, wobbling a little, and stood for a moment to secure his balance. Then he reached up, hesitated, and wrapped a shaking hand around the smooth plastic of the receiver. Taking a deep breath, he lifted it off the hook, and smiled at his victory.

Then, his face fell.

Feeling cold despair welling in his chest, he slid down the wall and sat despondently on the upturned trash can, hot tears beginning to burn the backs of his eyes. He clenched his fists and shook with self-loathing and anger and frustration. Useless. Pathetic. He didn't know Pastor Jim's number. He had only recently learnt all the numbers from one to ten, and even if he could remember the number, he had never used a telephone before. He knew that people spoke in and out of it, of course, and that you typed the number in on the little keyboard-thing, but he had never actually done it.

"Stop it Sammy. This isn't helping Dean."

He muttered brokenly to himself, wiping his face on the back of his sleeve. He had to think. He had to be big and strong like Dean always was for him. What would Dean do if he needed to look up somebody's telephone number? Sam thought hard, remembering all the times when Dean had rung somebody, desperately wishing he had paid more attention.

_The address book is on the nightstand, so if you need to call the doctor or anyone else the numbers are all in there._

His brother's voice came to him again, and he whipped about, running over to the nightstand with a determined expression contorting his face into that of a child far beyond his four years. Placing a small hand on the smooth, cool leather of the address book, he abruptly flipped it open and squinted, trying to make sense of the dancing chaos of numbers and letters all jumbled together in disarray.

Quashing the rising panic in his chest with incredible self restraint, he pursed his lips and leant so close to the page his nose touched the paper. After a moment, he identified the large letter 'A' in the upper right hand corner. He was at the beginning of the book, at 'A'. He frowned, thinking. Where would Pastor Jim be? P? J? No, Dean had said it was done by surname, so…um…

Murphy! 'M', then. Sam bit his lip. Where was M in the alphabet, again?

"A b c d e f g, h i j k l…M!"

He muttered to himself, smiling in triumph as he began to flip through the pages, all the while continuing to murmur the alphabet under his breath. Finally, he reached the page marked with a large letter 'M', and placed a finger on the first address, praying that Pastor Jim was somewhere near the beginning. The first name seemed to slide in and out of focus, the letters refusing to slide together, to make sense. Sam's breath hitched. He wasn't very good at reading. Keep calm, he urged himself.

_When in doubt, spell it out!_

Dean's voice in his head echoed from many a night of reading together, and then laughed. Sam nodded obediently, hesitating before running the tip of his finger slowly across the first name.

"P…P-A…ssss…T…O…rrrr…gee…ma…"

His eyes widened, and he gave a small whoop of joy.

"Pasty Jim!"

Carefully keeping his place in the small book, he hurried back over to the makeshift phone stand and scrambled up onto it, heart beating hard and fast in his chest. Nearly there. He had nearly done it. All he had to do was type in the number, and then get help.

He read the number to himself, over and over again, then placed it on the floor beside the trash can. Reaching up, he grabbed the receiver off the hook and began to painstakingly type in the number, snapping his head back and forth between the book on the floor and the buttons on the phone.

"Um…2…6…0…7…uh…8…3…4…2…6…and…1."

He held his breath and shifted nervously from foot to foot, careful not to fall from the top of the trash can, while tinny rings sounded in his ear. He jumped and winced with each new toll, finding it terribly odd to hear them straight in his ear. He decided he didn't like the phone, not one bit. But he had to do this. He had to get help for Dean.

After what felt like decades, the rings stopped, and a clear and familiar voice sounded in Sam's ear.

"Hello, this is Anchorhead Vicarage, Pastor Jim Murphy speaking. Can I help you?"

Sam swallowed thickly, suddenly speechless.

"Um…"

He croaked out, licking his dry lips, glancing nervously over to Dean, who still lay trembling on the bed. He stiffened his resolve and tried again.

"Pasty…Jim?"

There was a brief, surprised pause, before Pastor Jim's voice came through the receiver again, clearly taken aback but wonderfully soothing to Sam's ears.

"Sam? Sam Winchester, my child, is that you? What's wrong?"

Suddenly, something in Sam broke. All the tension, the terror, the confusion, the pain and the fear of the past few hours seemed to build higher and higher until it overwhelmed him, and he whimpered, drawing his legs up and huddling around himself, shaking uncontrollably.

"Pasty Jim," he choked out, through a screen of tears "Dean's on fire."

-----------------------------

"God, Sammy, I swear…"

Dean muttered exasperatedly to himself, as he continued the tedious task of restoring the motel to relative order. It was proving more difficult than expected. He was used to menial tasks such as doing the dishes, changing the bed-sheets and so on; he had done that for most of his life. Although he had grappled with blood-stained carpets many times, it did nothing to prepare him for trying to get what felt like a million shards of glass out of a resilient carpet. The floor was putting up one hell of a fight.

Sam, however, was not-so-blissfully ignorant of his brother's aggravation, and continued to sleep disturbingly quietly. He lay so still, if Dean couldn't hear the raspy breathing issuing from his brother's chest he would have thought Sam had stopped breathing. He shuddered at that thought, and ran a hand through his hair and over his face. His arms ached, and his palms were sore from sweeping and gathering and scrubbing. And all he wanted was to sink down into his own bed, no matter how uncomfortable the mattress was, and sleep for a month.

But he couldn't.

Sammy came first. Before sleep, before himself, hell, before everything. And something was not right with his little brother, not right at all. Therefore, Dean ignored the way his body ached for rest, placed the dustpan and brush to one side and sat for a moment on the floor in the middle of the room, thinking. Glancing over at the sleeping form on the bed, he sighed quietly.

"Why is it always you, Sam?" He murmured, a little more emphatically than he would care to admit "Couldn't someone else take a turn at being the ghoulies punching bag for a change?"

Sam's contribution to the conversation was, as ever, about as inspirational as a paralyzed mute goldfish. Chuckling at his creative use of metaphors, Dean absentmindedly reached up to his neck and fiddled with the coarse strap of his necklace. It was something he always did, when thinking. Sam tended to bite his fingers instead, which was entirely less healthy and looked far sillier. Still, it wasn't a habit that was easy to break.

Dean huffed a breath, and clambered businesslike to his feet. Time to get some work done.

"Alright. Keep it cool, Winchester. Dad's journal. Look in Dad's journal. Gotta work out what this thing is whether Sammy's gonna help you or not."

Yes, he also talked to himself. What? Everybody did. It was good motivation. Plus, he wasn't so completely anti-social that he would ignore himself too. At least then he was guaranteed some witty conversation. Heh.

Dean shook his head to dispel the momentary internal monologue, and retrieved the leather bound journal from its resting place on his bed. Sitting back against the headboard, he paused for a moment to stare at the cover, with all its scratches and wears and tears. It was exactly like Dad. Like a piece of their Father's mind, thoughts and feelings, was always with them. He frowned. Now he was getting mushy. Flipping the journal open, he began to skim the pages, muttering to himself as he did so. Or rather, to Sam.

"Dreams and nightmares? Must be some kind of psychic-mind screwing thing. And whatever it was, the after effects are still messing with your head, kiddo…man; I'm no good at this researching gig…"

After about half an hour of talking to nobody in particular about nothing in particular, and having used up just about every curse known to man and spirit alike (including, oddly, 'holy crumpets!' and 'well salt me up and burn me down, this sucks outta hell!') Dean was running out of ideas. There was absolutely nothing useful mentioned in the journal. At all. Zit, zilch, niddo, nadda.

Feeling the beginnings of despair clawing it's way through his mind, Dean growled in frustration and ran a hand wearily over his face. It was late. And he was _so _tired. He could swear that he was sinking further and further into the mattress beneath him, could feel his muscles begging, his bones aching for sleep. This was no good. He couldn't help Sam, not like this. But God, that made him feel like such a failure.

Peeking out between his fingers, he observed his brother's still horribly blank features and frowned.

"What'd you see, Sammy? What did that thing do to you?"

No answer. Grunting, Dean rolled himself off the edge of the mattress and crouched unsteadily on the floor between the two twin beds, his vision focusing and un-focusing, making him dizzy. He rubbed at his temple and winced, and leant back against the hard wood of his brother's bed, leaning his head close to Sam's and allowing his eyes to rove over his brother's face. The slightest caress of gentle breathing reassured him of the reality of the situation. Sam was alive, still. But he wasn't Sammy. Not like this, unable to talk or move or smile. Dean really missed Sam's smile.

A troubled expression aging his features, Dean reached over Sam's shoulder to grasp the edge of the duvet, which had slipped down to his brother's waist. Goosebumps had risen up Sam's arms, yet he didn't shiver. Dean shook his head and tugged the sheets up to his brother's neck, then began to rub Sam's arm absently, trying to restore some warmth in his brother's motionless body.

"You know you have to spell things out for me, man, I've never been the brightest crayon in the pack. So just…have a think about it for me, okay?"

Dean knew Sam would if he could. Right now he'd give anything for one of Sam's goofy 'aw shucks, so you really do care! Hee hee this'll come back to bite you in the ass one day' grins and they could just go and get some coffee and forget the whole thing. But he knew that wasn't happening any time soon. He had left Sam alone. This was his fault, it was he who had been in the wrong, yet Sam was paying the price. And the most annoying thing was, the smug bastard probably wouldn't have it any other way.

"Sammy, I don't know what to do. And just who am I gonna ask, way out here?"

He didn't know why he kept on talking. Usually he hated it. Maybe it was habit. After the night of the fire, he hadn't spoken to anyone for months, not even Dad. Nobody, that was, except for Sam. It was weird. There was something soothing about the way he would just talk for hours on end, a little four year old squashed in the corner of a cot, Sam's large, deep brown eyes just staring up at him. Sometimes his baby brother would have made baby noises, and he had imagined that Sammy was talking back to him. It seemed like he did. Whenever Dean was sad, Sam seemed to know, and would make sympathetic cooing noises. Whenever he said something funny, his baby brother would giggle. Sam could always read him like a book.

Except, back then, even when Sammy had been asleep at least he would still be Sammy. He'd toss and turn, smile or frown in his sleep, and once he got strong enough to roll over and crawl he would automatically wriggle his way across the mattress till he was as close to Dean as he could be. Dad had always said it was because Sammy felt safer when he was close to Dean. Thinking back, Dean suspected that although that was true, Sam had also understood that Dean felt safer when _he_ was near. Sam understood things like that. Even when Dean didn't voice his thoughts, his feelings, and he rarely did…Sam knew. He always knew.

Now, though…it was like Sam wasn't even here. Like he'd skipped off to Sammy-land where there were lollypops and candy canes and a little house with a white picket fence, and left Dean with an empty shell. Maybe that was what Sam wanted. Maybe it wasn't that he couldn't wake up, but that he wouldn't.

Dean swallowed, cleared his throat, and patted Sam briefly on the shoulder.

"Hey, uh…just in case you can hear me, buddy, don't worry, okay? I'll get you back to normal somehow. Super-Dean's on the case."

Straightening up, Dean stretched, and winced as his spin creaked in protest. Feeling a dizzy spell coming on, he sat down heavily on his own bed and fumbled for his cell phone in his pocket. He flipped it open with one hand, half covering his mouth with the other as he yawned widely, and lay back on top of the covers. Scrolling down the contacts list, he kept up his tradition of letting Sam know what was going on. Just in case.

"Well, anyway, I'm gonna leave Dad a message, just in case he tries to send us off on another job. Cause no offense, man, but you look like crap. I don't think you could take a snail on laxatives, let alone a ghostly S.O.B."

Selecting the blank picture and number entitled 'Dad', Dean felt suddenly nervous. It was stupid, really. It wasn't like Dad was going to pick up. Still…there was just the tiniest part of him that still dared to hope, that after the third ring he'd hear that gruff hello.

_This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help._

"Uh…hey Dad, it's Dean…"

Dean slid down the headboard till his pounding head rested against the pillow, winced, and watched his brother's sleeping face as he spoke as casually as he could.

"Well, um, just to let you know, Sammy's gotten himself a bit battered while on the hunt. Not that you care, but we don't know what it is, and uh…well, whatever it was it attacked Sam and I still don't know what the hell it did to him. His minds all over the place…he doesn't seem to know if he's here or there, y'know? He keeps talking like a little kid, its kinda creepy…"

Remembering their Dad liked it short, sweet and monotone, Dean cleared his throat and got back on topic.

"Anyway…don't worry, cause I'll get Sammy fixed up and on the roam in no time, but if you could just not send us on any hunts, cause I don't think we can handle it right now. Or…well…it'd be good if you could get here, but uh…"

A stab of…something filled his chest. Just weeks ago, Sam had been in his position. When he had been laying in hospital. Dying. Going to die. Almost definitely. Where had Dad been then?

"You know what? Forget it. Never mind. I've got it. Bye, Dad."

He said, without a trace of emotion. Snapping the cell shut, he tossed it carelessly in the general direction of the nightstand and groaned; rubbing a hand across his face, he felt exhaustion wrap itself around him like a shroud. Rolling over onto his front, without bothering to remove his shoes or climb under the covers he let his eyes drift shut. Maybe just a quick nap.

"Nigh', Sammy."

He managed through a wide yawn, before he slipped into the deep, depthless oblivion that was sleep. Sam wasn't the only one who would have bad dreams that night.

-----------------------------

**A/N: Ooh, Daddy issues! This'll be good. (evil grin) I love John Winchester, and I think he got a bit of a raw deal in the series, so I figured I'd try and redeem him during this story. But I need my Dean angst first!**

**Little Sammy saying that Dean was 'on fire' was inspired when my little cousin (who is four, like Sam) told me that _her_ older brother was on fire. This was when I went to baby-sit. Of course, I leap upstairs only to find no flames or charred remains, but a flushed little five year old boy with a fever. Children have the funniest way of expressing things!**

**Next chapter: A nice little update on the Papa Winchester situation, Sammy continues flashbacking, and Dean decides to call in the cavalry. **

**Please please pretty please review! You guys are so encouraging, and I'll update quicker! (Shameless bribery) Or…or I'll set Sammy's super special awesome puppy dog eyes of doomatage on you!**

**Thanks for reading :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Woo! Chapter eleven already. This story is getting long…ah well. The more the merrier. **

**Disclaimer: If I owned it, the Impala would be MINE and season two would be airing in the UK (drools)**

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic**

**11.**

There was a very, very dead silence down the phone, and Sam was confused. Had something gone wrong? His heart began to beat hard in his chest, and he furiously wiped the hot tears from his eyes and sniffled. Finally, the rather choked reply came.

"I'm sorry, Sam, did you say…your brothers on _fire_?"

Sam frowned, a little frightened by the rising panic he could hear in the elderly Pastor's voice. What was it? Was there something he had missed?

"Yes, Pasty Jim."

He said blankly, and almost immediately he heard frantic movement down the phone as Pastor Jim began relaying rapid-fire orders down the line. Sam jumped a little as his ear protested to the sudden rise in volume, and moved the receiver fraction away from his ear.

"Ok, um, just keep calm, alright? Tell Dean to drop to the floor and roll around until the flames go out, or run and fetch a bucket of water, quickly, son!"

Sam blinked once. Twice. Pastor Jim was confused, he hadn't understood. Sam would have laughed had the situation not been so serious. Mental images of his brother writhing around on the floor wrapped in flames made the comic value suddenly sinister, and his stomach twisted horribly, making him want to throw up. He hastily interrupted the panicking Pastor while suppressing the urge to double over and hurl.

"But Pasty Jim, there aren't any flames. I mean…um…Dean's all hot and shaky and his skin is sticky."

Another dead silence, and Sam waited, kicking his legs back and forth in mid-air nervously.

"Oh. I see."

Came the surprised and slightly embarrassed response. Sam gave a feeble giggle, which quickly became a sob, and slammed a small fist against the hotel wall while biting down hard on his bottom lip.

"Samuel…do you mean that Dean has a fever?"

Sam frowned, confused, wracking his brain for an elusive meaning of the foreign word. Fever. It sounded threatening.

"A fee-ver?"

He enunciated, uncertainly. The Pastor made an affirmative 'hm' noise, and elaborated, thankfully calm now the misunderstanding was fading from their minds.

"Yes, Sam. It's the human body's natural way of defending itself against illness. Well, it's a little complicated, but…where's your Father? On the hunt?"

Sam ignored the aching he felt when he thought of his Father. He wanted Daddy here so badly. He wanted to hide in Daddy's shoulder and for Daddy to smile at him and tell him it was all okay, that he would fix it, that Dean would be fine. He wanted that so badly…but more, even more, he wanted Dean to wake up.

But that didn't seem to be happening any time soon.

"Yeah."

Sam croaked out, twisting the telephone wire in his fingers in anxiety.

"And when did he say he would be back?"

"Sunday."

"And how badly ill is Dean? Is he conscious?"

Sam had only been half listening, his gaze lingering on his brother's form lying almost still in the bed across the room. Even from here, he could see the slight shivers which wracked Dean's body. He swallowed, and whipped his head around to face the wall.

"Con-what?"

The briefest of sighs down the line. Sam felt the guilt ratchet up another knot. Stupid. He couldn't do anything, understand anything. He was so pathetic.

"Is he awake, Samuel?"

Sam shook his head silently, before realizing Pastor Jim could not see him, and inwardly growled in frustration. Dean was lying here, maybe dying, and all Sam could do was make stupid mistakes. This was useless.

"Er…no. Well, he keeps muttering stuff, but it doesn't make any sense. Pasty Jim…I'm scared. I…I don't want Dean to die."

He didn't know where he would be in the world without Dean. Everything that defined him was determined by Dean. The clothes he wore, the way he spoke, when he laughed, when he cried…everything. Dean was warmth and protection and safety. Dean was everything.

"Don't worry, my son, I'm sure it's not that serious. Now, I need you to do something for me. Do you know where your Father's first aid kit is?"

Sam shook his head violently to disperse the suffocating veil of emotions which threatened to cloud his judgment. Pushing all negative thoughts as far back into his mind as he could force them, he thought, hard. The first aid kit. White with a big red cross. In the bathroom.

"In the bathroom, I think. Under the sink."

Anticipating the instructions to come, Sam slid from the upturned trashcan, wincing as his stomach grated across the circular edge. While Pastor Jim continued to speak in his ear, he began to carefully roll up his sleeves, mimicking his brother when Dean went about household chores. Dean was always telling him not to get his sleeves caught on things. They didn't have enough money to pay for new ones. Well, they could, but it would make Daddy's hunting more difficult.

"Alright. Go and get it and then pick the phone back up, and I'll tell you what to do."

Sam nodded, determined.

"Okay."

Dropping the receiver to the floor, he stood straight and then crossed the short distance to the bathroom door as past as his short legs could carry him. Swinging around the doorframe, he scanned the bathroom for the sink. He had seen so many different motel bathrooms that it took him a moment to remember where it was this time, but at last, he saw it, and hurled himself down onto his knees beneath the bowl.

Reaching behind the porcelain column, his fingers touched the smooth plastic surface, and the tips of his fingers brushed the shape of a cross. He hastily dragged the first aid case out from behind the sink, tucked it to his chest with both arms, and scrambled to his feet, rushing back to the phone. Dumping the kit on the ground he slumped to his knees, panting, and retrieved the receiver.

"I'm back, Pasty Jim."

There was a terrible moment where there was no response.

"Alright, Sam. Have you ever used a thermometer before?"

Breathing a deep, replenishing sigh of relief, Sam thought back. No. He had never needed to actually use a thermometer on someone else. He knew what they looked like, though, and he had seen them used.

"Daddy's used them on me. He sticks them in my ear. I don't like it, it's really cold and the beep is so loud it makes me jump."

Pastor Jim chuckled briefly, and Sam pouted, dragging the first aid kit onto his lap and frowning down at him. even though he was only little, he hated being treated like his…his…ig-nor-ance was am-us-ing. He smiled, proud of himself for thinking with such big, long words. The fact that Dean had smugly used them on him and he had no idea what they meant did not stop him from being clever at all, of course. Nope.

"Well, do you know what it looks like? Can you see if you can find one in the first aid kit?"

Sam hesitantly flipped the lid of the first aid kit open, wincing as it slammed down awkwardly on his bony knees. He blinked, faced with what seemed to a neatly packed but nonetheless infinitely confusing mess of metal and plastic and white. Conjuring up a mental image of a thermometer, he carefully began removing item after item, eyes scanning the contents so intently he felt they might burst.

Bandages, gauze, a syringe, a tin, some capsules, a pack of medicine, more medicine, a second syringe, some kind of powder, needle and roll of thread, more gauze, more medicine…medicine, medicine, medicine, something large and sharp that Sam couldn't identify and –

"AHA!"

Sam snatched the small plastic and metal, spatula shaped thermometer from the very bottom of the kit, and immediately cried out in pain.

"Ouch!"

Thick, crimson blood began to well in the long but thankfully shallow cut which ran along the edge of his thumb, and he hastily shoved it into his mouth, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the coppery taste. Glancing back into the kit, he saw that a particularly new and shiny looking scalpel had been innocently packed right beneath the thermometer, and subsequently had decided to make Sam's thumb its newest victim.

"What is it? Sam?"

Sam sucked hard on his throbbing thumb, and spoke a little thickly around it into the receiver, trying to mask his pain.

"Nothing. I found it."

Pastor Jim sounded unconvinced, but thankfully dismissed his odd behaviour and rather muffled responses and continued.

"Alright. Head over to Dean, and roll him onto his back. Then very carefully put the thermometer in his ear and press down gently. Don't put it in too far or you'll hurt him, alright? Then tell me what the little screen says. There'll be a number on it."

Sam went suddenly rigid. If he put the thermometer too far…he would hurt him? Hurt Dean? Big brother? No. No, no, no, no, no. That wasn't good. He couldn't do that. What if he messed up?

"But what if…I…"

He worried at his lip, glancing warily from Dean to the small, innocent looking thermometer in his lap. He might make it worse. He couldn't do this. He couldn't bear to see Dean in any more pain. He wouldn't. Couldn't.

"Come on, Samuel. You can do it. Dean needs you now. Don't you want to repay him, for all the times when he's been there for you?"

Sam felt strength pour through his veins like liquid mercury, and he abruptly rubbed his eyes, clenched his jaw and nodded fervently, standing on shaky legs. Yes. He wanted to make Dean better, and if this helped, he would do it. Without hurting him. Somehow.

"Okay."

Dropping the phone as though it was a striking snake and wincing slightly at the thump and clatter it made as it hit the floor, Sam hurried across the room to his brother's bed. It didn't look good. If anything, Dean looked even worse than when he had left him. His flushed cheeks stuck out horribly with his seemingly even paler cheeks, and although eh shivered less often, it was with more violence. For a moment, Sam stood unable to move or speak. Gathering his courage, he reached out hesitant hands, let them hover in mid-air for a moment, then let them fall on his brother's sweat-soaked back. Dean groaned.

"Dean, I'm going to roll you over, okay? I sorry if it hurts."

Dean gave no response, so Sam clenched his fists in the damp cotton of his brother's shirt, and pushed with all his might. Dean whimpered and thrashed weakly, but Sam gritted his teeth and continued to push. Eventually, his brother flopped limply onto his back, and Sam collapsed his upper body beside him, more emotionally exhausted than physically.

"Da..d…Sa.."

Sam sat perfectly still, mesmerized by the hesitant movement of dry, chapped lips, the rattling breath, the jerking of Dean's chest as he unconsciously fought the convulsion to cough. It was the first time Dean had spoken properly in hours.

He wanted Dad. Of course. But Sam wasn't sure why that made him feel so terrible inside.

"Sam…my…?"

Sam's head snapped upwards at the hoarse whisper, and he blinked in surprise. His own lips tugged upwards weakly into a small smile. Then he let out a joyful cry and launched himself up onto the bed, embracing his brother around the chest as gently as he could, his grin feeling as though it was splitting his face in two. He didn't care. Dean was glad he was here.

"Yeah, Dean. It's me."

He laid an ear against his brother's chest, and frowned at the congested rattling he could hear beneath it. He could feel ribs and muscles working painfully below baking skin, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut when Dean moaned and gave another wrenching shudder. Sitting up abruptly, he slowly uncurled his fist from the thermometer, eying the digital display and the smooth plastic with trepidation.

Very slowly, he leant down, took a deep breath, and inserted the metal tip carefully into Dean's ear. Dean's brow furrowed, and he moved his arm jerkily towards his head, and Sam caught his brother's wrist with his free hand. Surprised at both his own strength in doing so and in Dean's weak lack of resistance, he brought his brother's wrist to his own chest while gently pressing down on the thermometer, silently begging the little device to hurry up.

"No, cold…"

Dean protested mildly, and Sam nodded emphatically in agreement, suddenly noticing the rigid, jerky shake in his own arm which held the thermometer in place. Come on. Come _on. _

"I sorry Dean, I know, it's really cold, I don't like it either, but Pasty Jim says I need to find out how hot you are so you can get better. Please?"

Finally, the little beep sounded, and both Dean and Sam jumped in surprise. Hastily withdrawing the thermometer, Sam rested a hand on his brother's hair while squinting eagerly down at the digital display. Three hazy digits slid in and out of focus. Sam frowned.

"One…zee-ro…three."

Repeating the number over and over to himself, Sam touched his cool cheek briefly to Dean's burning forehead, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. Then he leapt lightly from the bed, racing back over to where had left the receiver on the floor.

"Pasty Jim, it says one zee-ro three. Is that bad?"

He babbled out in a rush, bouncing back and forth on his heels in anxiety.

"Yes, my son, I'm afraid that is quite bad. But it's not life threatening, not yet. Listen, I'm going to ring your Father and tell him to ring you, alright?"

His Father's angry features immediately filled his head, reprimanding him, calling him useless and pathetic and a baby, a child. Useless and unable, small and insignificant. Although he knew Daddy would never speak to him like that…it was almost like…admitting defeat. Like he couldn't take care of Dean by himself, and…and he _could. _He wanted to. He knew he could.

"No! No, Pasty Jim, Daddy will be angry if I make him come because I couldn't look after Dean…"

He trailed off, thinking back to what Daddy had said about interrupting hunts. Some people could die, he had said, very seriously. And it would be all his fault, so only in an emergency. But…Dean might die, surely that was bad?

He would rather a hundred people died than Dean. Immediately following this thought, he blanched, and felt positively sick. What a horrible thing to think, to feel. Yet he couldn't help it. He truly would rather a hundred…no…a _thousand _people died, if it meant Dean wouldn't.

"Samuel. You are only a young boy. You cannot be expected to look after a sick person, it's far too much. You've done so well already, and your Father would want to know if Dean was ill."

That was true. But all the same…

"But Pasty Jim…Dean's my big brother. I'm supposed to be able to look after him."

Pastor Jim chuckled, that chuckle which was both so warm and friendly, and yet amused at his _childishness. _Sam frowned, feeling a little insulted. This was a very serious matter. It meant a lot to him that Dean would one day…maybe…see him as an equal. Someone he could trust as well as protect.

"Yes, I suppose, but not just yet. And I'm not saying you couldn't. But it would be safer if your Father came to make sure Dean was okay, wouldn't it?"

Sam slumped in defeat. Yes. Of course. He was letting his silly thoughts of the future get in the way of helping Dean now. He sighed. He was already failing miserably in his self-appointed job as Dean's protector.

"Yes."

He paused, feeling the need of something more solid to express his newfound goal. Something that would last. He thought, hard. When heroes in the stories he had read set out to do something…they made a promise. A…what was it…bow? Wow?

Vow! A vow. He cleared his throat, and stood up straighter.

"One day, I'll grow big enough. One day…I'll grow so big and strong that I'll be able to protect Dean from absolutely anything at all. You'll see. I vows it."

This time, Pastor Jim did not laugh. There was a pause, a short silence, and Sam felt pride blossom in his chest. He hoped he hadn't offended Pastor Jim in any way, and he hoped he didn't sound silly, because that wasn't what this was at all. Before this, before Dean got sick, he had only ever really thought of how big and brave and wonderful his big brother was…but even though now the pretence that Dean was an invincible hero had gone…somehow Sam only admired him more. It meant he would have a chance to repay Dean for everything he had done for him.

He nodded, smiling to himself. This was the start of something better than ever before.

"I'm sure you will. But you know, Sam…you can't always protect your loved ones from everything. Some things are just out of our control."

The elderly Pastor paused to allow his words to sink in. Sam's smile faltered, and he shook his head, slowly. No. He didn't like the sound of that. It didn't have to be true, though. He could make it untrue.

"Now, see if you can find a towel, soak it in cold water and put it on your brother's forehead. Try to keep him cool. I'll get over there as soon as I can, and answer the phone when it rings twice, your Father will ring soon. Okay?"

Absorbing the instructions without really processing them, Sam nodded automatically, and abruptly turned his mind to bigger things.

"Yes, Pasty Jim. Bye bye."

He hung up the phone perhaps a little too quickly than was necessary. It was rude, he knew, but he didn't really care.

While setting about the task of finding a substitute compress to cool Dean down, Sam continued to think on his plans for the future. Dean did do an awful lot for him, all the time. He always cooked the meals, even when Daddy was around, and made the beds, and helped Sam bath and get dressed in the mornings and change into pajamas before bed. Then there were the bedtime stories and the help with school work…and whenever they were at school Dean _always _picked him up right on time outside the classroom so they could walk home together.

Okay, so maybe Sam wasn't old enough to do all those things yet, and he doubted Dean would want him to suddenly start acting like he was the older one…but he could still make an effort to let Dean know how grateful he was. And he could help doing little things like making the beds, and learn to tie his shoes so Dean wouldn't have to do it for him, and make sure to always be on time for the after-school pick up. He smiled.

If Dean made it through this fee-ver, that was.

Having located a small square of flannel material and soaked it under the run of the tap (with the aid of his ever trusty trash can step) he returned to Dean's still shaking form. Feeling the beginnings of panic welling up inside him, he stamped his foot and quashed them, swallowing thickly. Protectors didn't have time for fear.

Laying the cool, refreshingly moist pad of cloth on his brother's sweaty forehead, Sam smiled as Dean stilled, and his head sunk into the pillow as his neck relaxed. Crossing his arms on top of the covers, Sam began to gently wipe the cloth back and forth, clumsily but steadily, feeling suddenly very calm.

"Don' worry, Dean. Pasty Jim was all wrong. When I get bigger, I'll be able to protect you from anything. Then you'll never get hurt or be sad again."

He shivered, but it wasn't a bad shiver. More like a shiver of excitement and anticipation and purpose. It was a good feeling.

"I promise."

The solemn little voice echoed around the empty motel room, and Sam felt a deep shudder pulse through him, as his words resounded around the very shadows of his soul and bound him to his pledge.

_Tsk tsk. Such a silly, foolish, stupidly brave little boy. _

-----------------------------

_**Present day, State of Missouri.**_

John Winchester cradled the cell phone in the centre of a curled palm, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. A dull ache had begun to set in behind his eyes. His boys had left another message. The third in so many months.

God, he hated this so much. He could hardly bear to think of what must be running through their heads right now. Still, at least they knew he was alive. It was a pity he couldn't say the same of them half the time. But they were together, that much he did know. They stood the best chance they could, this way.

Drawing a deep breath, he selected the latest message, hesitated, then placed it next to his ear and sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and bowing his head as he listened:

"_Uh…hey Dad, it's Dean…well, um, just to let you know, Sammy's gotten himself a bit battered while on the hunt. Not that you care, but we don't know what it is, and uh…well, whatever it was it attacked Sam and I still don't know what the hell it did to him. His minds all over the place…he doesn't seem to know if he's here or there, y'know? He keeps talking like a little kid, its kinda creepy…"_

John frowned deeply as his son's voice faltered, considering the wealth of information just relayed to him. It wasn't as bad as it could have been, he supposed. The last time a message had been left, it had been Sam informing him that Dean was _dying. _

He shuddered. Strange, how that simple word in relation to his children could make him endure such resounding terror, when the most putrid of evils in this world barely made him flinch.

"_Anyway…don't worry, cause I'll get Sammy fixed up and on the roam in no time, but if you could just not send us on any hunts, cause I don't think we can handle it right now. Or…well…it'd be good if you could get here, but uh…"_

Dean hesitated. John was suddenly aware that he was holding his breath.

"_You know what? Forget it. Never mind. I've got it. Bye, Dad."_

His son's cold tone was abruptly cut off with finality by a small, overly cheerful beep. For several minutes, John sat in silence, vaguely aware of the far off chaos of the main road outside the dingy motel room. Was it worth it? Really? Alienating them like this, so much so that even Dean…_Dean…_the good soldier who always had such faith in him…was beginning to doubt?

Maybe he had misplaced his trust in his own instincts. Maybe…maybe just briefly…he could consider making some kind of contact. Communication. Just to let them know he was there, even though he wasn't, technically, _there. _

As it grew darker and darker beyond the frosted window pane, John Winchester simply sat quite still, staring down at the small cell phone in his hand until his limbs began to cramp from cold. Finally, after hours of contemplation, he sighed deeply, and tossed the small device angrily onto the bedside table in rejection.

He couldn't. Not yet. No. Not yet.

-----------------------------

**A/N: (Hides) Please don't kill me! John will meet up with the boys at some point, I promise! Sorry for the lack of Big Dean and Big Sam in this chapter, they'll be back next time. Speaking of which…**

**Next chapter: Dean swallows his pride and consults the psychic wondress. Look out, Missouri Moseley is in da house! **

**Thanks for reading:) Please review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Thanks to all those who continue to review, it means a lot! Well, here's the next installment. Hope you enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Why, I'm flattered you'd think I owned it. Unfortunately, I don't. Please don't sue a poor, unhappy little English girl, Mr Kripke!**

**Summary: All his life, Dean's never let his guard down when it comes to Sammy. Not once. But he's only human; and it only takes one mistake to bring their world crashing down around them. Brotherly love fic**

**12.**

Sam was abruptly jerked awake by the shrill sound of the phone ringing. Too tired to bother feeling guilty for falling asleep, he sat up slowly, wincing at the dull ache at the back of his head. His cheek burnt, and he rubbed at it absently, glancing down at Dean. He seemed better. His skin was not as badly flushed and his breathing seemed easier.

When the phone began to ring for a second time, Sam hurried to answer it.

"Daddy?"

He said, surprisingly confidently. At least something good had come out of this hell of a day; he could use a phone almost competently now. If this ever happened again, he would be ready.

"Sam, son, is that you? Thank God…are you okay? How's your brother?"

Sam closed his eyes and leant his head against the wall, drinking in the sound of his Father's voice like it was a life-replenishing force. To him, it was. He breathed in deeply, clumsily pushed his hair from his eyes and clearing his throat.

"Dean's…better. A bit."

There came a sigh of relief, and a brief pause.

"Good. That's good. Listen, buddy, I need you to be a big boy for Daddy, okay? I need you to be brave for me, and tell me exactly what happened. Alright?"

The smile on Sam's face fell. Before, he would have been glad to be babied by Daddy…before today, he had loved it, enjoyed being treated with such care. Now, though...it bothered him. It seemed silly. He didn't constantly need encouragement; he could think for himself.

"Dean…he…was shaking and…it was…then…"

He struggled to translate the terrible progression of emotions which had passed so recently, and yet so long ago, and found himself at a loss. Mistaking Sam's lack of eloquence for hysteria, his Father's tone changed from soothing and sympathetic to perhaps a little testy. It wasn't obvious, but Sam could hear it. It was like his ears had been opened to the truth hidden behind every meaning in the world. It was a good feeling, yet frightening. Did this mean that Sam couldn't always trust in what people told him?

"Come on, Sam. Pull yourself together, kiddo."

A little insulted, Sam cast about in his mind for the right words.

"He just…fell over. He was shaky and hot all day and then he just fell over. On the floor. I thought he was sleeping but then he wouldn't wake up and…and now he's…"

The words ran dry, but thankfully, Daddy interrupted…come to think of it, maybe Sam should stop calling Daddy…Daddy. After all, Dean had never called Daddy that. Only Dad. It was more grown-up. It reflected Sam's new found awareness well.

"Did you get him to bed?"

Not quite finding the courage to attempt changing Daddy's – _Dad's _– name aloud, Sam stumbled over the pronunciation and forced his voice to sound casual.

"Yes, Da…Dad-dy. He was real heavy but I got him into bed and that was better, I think."

"Alright, now. Listen, Sammy, well done. You've done very well, but right now I need you to stay focused, okay? Now, Pastor Jim said his fever was at a hundred and three. Has it gone up or down since then?"

"I…I don't know, Dad."

Sam reeled, and clapped a hand to his mouth in horror. He hadn't meant to. It had just slipped out. He bit his lip and hopped nervously from foot to foot, fervently hoping Dad wouldn't be angry. If the shocked silence was any indication, this wouldn't go down well. When the response finally came, there was something indefinable beneath the gruff, ineffectual tone.

"Okay, son, don't worry about it. Just keep trying to keep him cool, I'll be there in about an hour. Pastor Jim's not coming, I was on my way back from the hunt anyway. You watch out for Dean till then. Okay?"

Sam's heart sank, his heart beating painfully fast. Something had changed between them. He was no longer addressing Daddy, and Dad was no longer talking down to Sammy. It was exhilarating, yet terrifying.

Drawing himself up as tall as he could, Sam curtly nodded, desperately searching for an appropriate reply that would let Dad know that he had understood, that he could be trusted. That he wouldn't fail.

"Yes, Sir."

It didn't sound as impressive as when Dean said it, Sam thought, a little disappointed. Dad sounded both proud and a little sad. Sam understood. It was how he felt, too. Proud that he had grown up today, yet…sad that he was leaving something important behind. Something he'd never get back.

"That's my boy. Stay safe, Sammy."

_Be safe, Sammy._

A deep voice. Not Dad. Too deep to be Dean, yet…it was. Sam blinked, and suddenly, the motel room had gone. No. No, it hadn't he was still in a motel room, but…another motel room. Thunder overhead, breaking glass, furniture shaking violently. He was frightened. He was running. Rain and cold. Copper and steel. Fire and blood. Mom. Dad. Dean. Dean…

Dean with a fever, burning, face flushed, accusing.

Dean lying dead in the middle of a road, throat slit cleanly.

_Play by my game, play by my rules. _He was blind. Deep, pulsating, overpowering terror possessed him, as Dean filled his mind, dead, blood, rain, every fiber of his being was pain and fear and confusion. Running, trapped, getting nowhere, he had to get to Dean.

DeanDeanDeandeadnoDeannotDeadnobloodraincoldDeandeadDeadDeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDeanDean-

-----------------------------

"De…an…Dean…Dean…"

Dean frowned, suspended in mournful yet peaceful semi-darkness. His thoughts were sluggish, his mind caught between sleep and consciousness. He groaned, not wanting to leave this wonderful, beautiful emptiness, but the voice, a voice he knew, was distressed. He didn't like that voice sounding in pain. It belonged to someone special. Someone he didn't want to hurt. Someone who didn't deserve to feel pain.

"Dean…DEAN! D…ean…don't…want to die, Dean…dead, Dean, please…dead, dead, dead, dead…"

_Sammy._

Just like that, Dean was slammed back into reality with painful clarity as his heart skipped a beat. Sam. Where was Sam? Sammy!

Sitting bolt upright, Dean snapped his head around, wincing at the burning pain and the crack as his spine protested to the sudden movement. Once his vision had cleared, he managed to make out the writhing and thrashing of long, awkward limbs, punctuated by erratic, whimpered breathing which sounded more akin to sobbing.

Tipping himself over the edge of the bed, Dean scrambled across the floor and dragged his sluggish body up onto his brother's bed, feeling more and more awake by the second. Panic had begun to build in his chest as he reached for the flailing arms, snatching them from the air and pinning them to the bed. Sam's face was twisted horribly into an expression of utter terror, yet his eyes were squeezed tightly shut, tear tracks lining his cheeks like scars.

Dean swallowed thickly.

"Sammy, you awake?"

Sam froze, bucked violently then choked, his eyelids snapping open to reveal darkly clouded eyes brimming with fear. He took a dry, gasping heave, and wheezed, whooping shallowly, the erratic pace quickening. Sam's face seemed to drain of blood, and he wrenched his arms from Dean's iron grip to claw at his throat with shaking hands.

It took a moment for Dean to realize that Sam was panicking because he couldn't breathe. Frozen, all he could do for several long seconds was lock his gaze with Sam's petrified eyes, begging, silently pleading with him to do something, mouth moving wordlessly.

_Sammy . Can't . Breathe . _

Snapping himself to attention, Dean grabbed his suffocating brother by the shoulders and dragged him upright, thumping his back with his right palm while holding Sam upright with his left. Sam hacked, took a deep, shocked breath, but continued to struggle to breathe, his chest working furiously up and down.

Initial crisis over, Dean maneuvered himself behind his brother and drew Sam back against his chest, desperately trying to get his brother's attention, to focus, to stop staring around in petrified terror.

"Sammy, come on, breathe…breathe! Calm down."

At the sound of the familiar voice, Sam's eyes slowly slid over to focus on Dean's, and Dean smiled, refusing to blink despite the burning behind his eyelids. Spreading a large palm across his brother's chest, he rubbed gently in comforting circles, murmuring nonsense all the while.

"Breathe with me, okay? In…no, hold it, hold it…good…and out. Nice and slow."

For a few minutes, they sat in relative quiet, the tension slowly draining from Sam's body and allowing him to slump against Dean, breathing heavily and trembling, cold sweat making his pale skin even more sickly-looking. Dean closed his eyes and leant his head back against the bed board, ignoring the spike of pain as it collided with the wood, hard, his heart pounding in his chest. Damn.

A hoarse whisper from somewhere below him made him look down, and he felt a flare of relief strengthen him as he found dazed but obviously aware brown eyes staring confusedly up at him. He smiled encouragingly, and in a rare show of conscious affection, rested a hand briefly against the side of his brother's head.

"There you go. See, it's not so bad, huh? You'll get the hang of this inhalation thing in no time."

Sam frowned and coughed dryly, and Dean winced in sympathy as he felt the rigid convulsions in his brother's chest. Sliding his hand down to rest between in the small hollow between Sam's shoulder blades, he leant his head down to address Sam eye to eye.

"You think you can handle some water?"

Sam's eyes glazed over, and he bit his lip, as though having trouble processing the simple inquiry. Dean felt his concern peak. Sam's brain must be being seriously addled by these…episodes of…whatever they were. Nightmares, by a more common name, but that hardly described them to justice. Even the worst of nightmares couldn't reduce someone to self-suffocation.

After what seemed like an age, Sam nodded almost imperceptibly against his brother's shoulders. Delighted at the acknowledgement, Dean slid out from under Sam, his mind already set on heading for the bathroom and filling a cupful of water from the tap.

When he went to climb unsteadily to his feet, however, he felt a sudden gripping pressure around his wrist that was so strong and desperate that it felt as though it was crushing the very bone of the joint. Flinching, he turned his head to see Sam staring imploringly but still silently up at him, clutching onto Dean's hand as though it was his last remaining lifeline.

Dean felt a strange rush of sympathy, and managed a small smile, patting his brother's hand before gently prying it from his trapped wrist.

"I'll be right back, Sammy. I promise. Trust me?"

He asked, softly, and Sam studied his features, seemingly mentally stripping down the layers of Dean's emotional defense. Dean shivered at the intensity of his brother's gaze, and felt a sudden prickle at the back of his mind, like an intrusion.

Unnerved, he moved quickly away from the bed and to the bathroom, where he mindlessly located a cup and began to fill it from the rusty tap, his thoughts racing a mile a minute. No. No, it wasn't possible. _Surely. _Sam could not actually _feel _his emotions, it was just…brotherly instinct. They had always shared a rather disturbingly understanding bond, the two of them, this was just a little more…drastic, than usual.

Making his way back to Sam's side, Dean guided his brother's hands to the cup and helped him sit up, frowning as he noticed that Sam was suddenly warmer than he would have liked. Great. More problems.

"Here you are. Drink it slow."

Sam wrapped shaky fingers around the base of the beaker, hesitated, then tipped it suddenly back and began to gulp greedily, a desperate, hungry look in his eyes. Dean made a noise of protest and quickly retrieved the cup, at which Sam gave him a desolate look.

"Woah, woah, gentle sips there, sparky! Choking equals bad, remember?"

Sam glared at him weakly and snatched the cup back, although it seemed he had understood, for he drunk more carefully this time around. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Dean studied his brother's face, nothing that Sam's cheeks and nose were flushed unnaturally. Concerned, he rested the back of his hand on his brother's forehead, frowning when he found a heat greater than that of his fingers there.

"You're a bit warm. Hang on…"

Leaning over the edge of the bed, Dean reached across to the cupboard installed within the bedside cabinet and pulled a battered and scratched first aid kit from the lower shelf. They should probably invest in a new one at some point, he thought idly, as he flipped open the lid and searched through the contents for a thermometer.

Finally locating the wretched device, he straightened up, and shook it a little until the digital display flickered on. Turning, he saw Sam gazing at the thermometer with an odd expression on his face; something like trepidation.

"I'm gonna take your temperature, okay Sammy? I'm just gonna slip this in here for a few moments and…hey!"

The moment the cool metal of the thermometer made contact with Sam's ear, Sam immediately flipped. Freaked. He slapped Dean's hand away and wrenched the device from his ear before flinging it across the room as though it had stung him. Dean blinked, watching his brother's face as Sam outright scowled at the device which was now lying halfway across the room.

"Sam, that was not cool."

Dean eventually managed to reprimand, sounding uncannily like their Father. Sam seemed to notice this, as his head snapped up so fast it must have been painful, and he gave Dean a wide eyed, hurt look, quickly replaced by guilt. Sam seemed to shrink back into the pillow, shying away from Dean. Dean sighed deeply, went and retrieved the thermometer, and sat back down on the bed beside Sam, who refused to look at him.

"Oh, come on, Sammy…it's just a thermometer, okay? It's not gonna hurt you. You know I wouldn't do anything to hurt you. Right?"

Sam nodded curtly, folding his arms over his chest and bowing his head so his features were hidden by his hair. It was one of the reasons he liked it so long, so he could hide. Dean was now extremely concerned. Sam seemed aware of his surroundings, but reluctant to actually talk. At all. This was not normal Sammy behaviour. Sam _loved _to talk. He always had.

Well…recently, not so much, but still. Not to these sub-atomic mono-syllabic levels. Dean patted Sam's shoulder to get his attention, and held up the thermometer questioningly, just out of his brother's slapping reach.

"Could we try this again? Can you just hold still for as long as you can, okay? Can you do that for me?"

Dean used the awesome power of his Sammy-soothing tone, and Sam immediately fell for it, nodding a little reluctantly and bearing the side of his head. His little brother seemed to be trying painfully hard to keep still, clenching his jaw as Dean dipped the thermometer carefully closer to Sam's ear.

"There we go…hey, hey, it's okay…that's it…not so bad, hm?"

Dean clicked his tongue impatiently as he stared at the digital display, and noting the tension in his brother's body, began to hum a soft tune under his breath. Metallica, admittedly, but it was more about the quiet thrum of noise than the actual music. It was a trick he had used ever since they had been very small; Mom had done it for him, too.

Eventually, the small bleep made them both jump, and Sam breathed a whispery sigh of relief and slumped into the mattress, seemingly exhausted. Dean glanced at the display; one hundred and three. Not bad, but not good, either. Smiling, he ruffled Sam's hair absently, feeling inexplicably proud of his brother.

"That's my boy."

-----------------------------

_That's my boy._

Dad and Dean always said that. He liked it. It was nice, like they were proud of him. He preferred it when Dean said it, though, because it sounded less…pat-ron-ising. Which was ironic, considering the word 'pat-ron-ising' had 'patron' in it which was Father in Latin or French or something…

Oh God. He was so confused.

"…Dean?"

He wrapped his hand in the material of Dean's shirt. It was the same, but different. This was still Dean, just…bigger. And why was that? Because Dean wasn't supposed to be this old, but he was still Dean, Sam knew it, he just knew it.

"Yeah, Sammy?"

Dean, dead. Three letters the same. Horrible.

"I don't want you to die."

His voice had broken. Broken like his mind was. Scattered. Couldn't think properly. Couldn't speak. He knew the words but they wouldn't come out in the right order. It made him sound stupid. He hated it. He didn't know if he was back then or here. Wait, here? Did that make here now? Then why was he thinking like he was then?

"Well, that's good to know, Sam. To be honest, I'm not too keen to kick the ol' bucket myself. Being dead is totally overrated."

That was funny. He thought it was funny. He should probably laugh. He felt more like crying.

"I'm really confused, Dean."

Dean would understand. Dean always understood. Even when he didn't say anything aloud, Dean understood. Even if he didn't say he did, Sam would know because a warmth would enter green eyes and he'd feel safe again.

"Why's that, Sam?"

Sam bit his lip and thought hard, trying to unscramble the words in his minds. It was like jigsaw puzzle. That was good. He liked puzzles. Always did.

"Cause I know your Dean but you're much bigger. And you were on fire and now your not. And Daddy and Pasty...Pastor Jim were here but now they're not."

There was a very long, very cold silence. No warmth came into Dean's eyes, only confusion, a little desperation. Fear. Fear of him, of Sam. His breath quickened. He was scaring Dean. He had sworn. He had promised. He wouldn't ever cause Dean pain, yet he was. Oh God. He didn't want to fail. He didn't want Dean to hate him.

"I don't understand what your saying, Sammy."

His breath hitched into a sob, and he felt pathetic. He leant his head against Dean's side as he shook, feeling Dean's hand burn as his fingers touched the nape of his neck. Stupid. Worthless. Why the hell was he crying?

"Don't…make me go back to sleep. Please. I don't want to. It's dark and cold and it hurts."

Badly. He didn't want to remember. He didn't want to be cold anymore. But even Dean had lost his warmth now. Was he lost? Did that mean he'd lost the game? But he hadn't broken any rules…he hadn't even won one round yet…

"Alright, Sam, I won't make you back to sleep. You're safe here. Nothing's going to hurt you while I'm around. Okay?"

_As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you._

"You've said that before. Kind of. Differently."

Dean laughed, his body shaking, but in a nice sort of way. It wasn't frightening like when he was burning. Maybe everything was just perception. Ill shaking was bad, funny shaking was good. How odd.

"Yeah, well, I'm trying not to make a habit of it, but you going kiddie regression on my ass ain't exactly helping matters."

He didn't understand.

"I'm going what?"

Dean sighed, the warmth leaving as quickly as it had come. He flinched and shrank back, mentally berating himself for upsetting Dean again. But he couldn't just pretend he understood, either.

"Never mind. Listen, Sammy…I need to know…do you remember anything about your…uh…dream? Not how you felt, but what you were doing."

He opened mouth, and suddenly, the words spilled out without restraint, falling in a jumble of uncontrolled thoughts and feelings, and Sam flushed in embarrassment, even though he had absolutely no idea why.

"I rang Pasty Jim and he rang Daddy and he said you had a fee-ver. Which means your skin was really hot cause you were ill. I found out how hot you were with a thermo-thingy, which hurt cause I cut myself on this thing that was in the first aid kit in the bathroom. Then Daddy rang and he and Pasty Jim came and made you better. Which was good, cause it was a bit scary when you were ill, you were all hot and shaky. And Daddy said…"

-----------------------------

Sam continued to recount his dream, or rather, memory with a haunted look in his too-wide eyes. Dean simply sat and let his little brother's meandering chatter wash through him. He felt numb. Sam wasn't just dreaming horrible dreams. He was reliving memories. Bad ones. This one was apparently about a time when he, Dean, had been ill. He could vaguely remember that day.

It had been a haze of unbearable heat, then icy cold, and of pounding aches and stabbing pains. And through all that, little cold hands, and a frightened voice asking him, no…pleading with him. he had never bothered to piece it all together before. He recalled the aftermath, though. Sam had barely let go of him for nearly a week, insisting he sleep beside him and hovering anxiously whenever Dean moved about. He had endured it, as he did all of his little brother's habits.

But he had never comprehended just how scared Sam had been. Scared of losing him. It warmed his heart, and yet, made him feel very uneasy. Whatever this…thing which had attacked Sam was, it was clearly able to delve so deeply into his mind that it knew Sam practically as well as Sam knew himself, perhaps better. Not only that, but it understood how to manipulate his brother. It had constructed a fake vision based on the knowledge that Sam would act irrationally if he thought Dean as in danger. And all of Sam's memory/dream escapades seemed to be based around fear and loss.

It was a sickening thought. Using their lives like that, using Mom's death, using Dean himself-

"You think too hard, Dean."

Sam muttered dreamily, smiling weakly. Dean felt his heart skip a beat, his blood running cold. He felt stiff, his limbs unresponsive. No. No. Not this. It couldn't be. Sam's smile widened, and he shook his head slowly from side to side.

"The fire that took Mommy…it won't take you too. I won't let it."

He hadn't mentioned the night of the fire out loud. Fuck. Damn. _Hell._

"Sammy?"

Sam tilted his head to the side, the very picture of mild disinterest, seemingly entirely oblivious to the chaos he was wreaking in his older brother's mind.

"Mmmhm?"

Dean found himself at a complete loss for words.

"How did…you know…I was…I didn't say anything about…"

He spluttered, eloquence escaping him for once. This day just seemed to go from bad to worse. Sam's smile widened, and he tapped the side of his head, two smart raps.

"You did in your head."

And Dean Winchester's day, ladies and gentlemen, just dropped from worse to gargantuously awful.

-----------------------------

**A/N: Ha! Betcha nobody saw that coming. Apart from a few clever reviewers way back in chapters one and two (glowers) well done, you guys!**

**Next chapter: Missouri actually DOES appear (I swear!) and Dean has a quiet little freak-out. I think he deserves it. **

**Thanks for reading :) PLEASE continue to review, people! I'm much obliged to ya. **


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N: Sorry sorry sorry! I'm back to the normal routine, so updates should be a bit more scarce now. Many apologies, and thanks as ever to those who reviewed! You guys make my day. **

**Disclaimer: Why, I'm flattered you'd think I owned it. Unfortunately, I don't. Please don't sue a poor, unhappy little English girl, Mr Kripke!**

**Unlucky thirteen! Enjoy. **

**13.**

Missouri Moseley hummed contentedly to herself, stirring the richly dark herbal tea with a small metal spoon. Three to the left, four to the right, swirl to the middle, and up and out! Perfect. Wrapping both hands around the smooth china of the mug she inhaled deeply, senses tingling as every individual herb scent registered in her subconscious mind. Now _this _was why she got up every morning.

Dean Winchester was scheduled to phone today, in…ooh, about ten minutes or so. That was, if he ever worked up the courage to swallow his pride. He was too much like his Daddy, that one. Never accepted help from anyone if he could help it. Damn. The Winchesters; pack of ego-maniacs, the lot of them, she thought fondly, smiling a little. And _so _fun to tease. Poor Dean. She felt sorry for the boy at times.

Tapping her fingers against the kitchen counter, she strained her senses, but could still only just make out a mess of conflicting emotions and a few words here and there. Dean, despite his lack of psychic ability, was extremely difficult to read. He had a strong mind. Whether consciously or not, there was a large labyrinth of defensive barriers protecting his innermost thoughts.

Right now, the boy seemed to be wondering something about windscreen wipers and fabric softener. Missouri raised her eyebrows; o-kay. What on earth were those boys doing?!

"Oh, come on, boy. I've dealt with obsessive compulsives with better decision making skills than you. Whadda I have to do, hold up a damn sign?"

She burst out, as Dean continued to dither over whether or not to call for help. She knew because she had recognized her own name come up several times over the last few minutes, along with a few rather disturbing inclinations to do with After Eight's and vodka whenever he saw a girl. She shuddered, hastily withdrawing from the mess that was Dean's mind, and hesitated.

Nowadays, she was apprehensive about attempting to probe Sam's mind. About a day ago she had felt a sudden explosion of turmoil from him, then a chilling quiet. This pattern had repeated itself over the past few hours, although thankfully on a smaller scale. It was one of the reasons she had read Dean, and discovered she would likely have visitors shortly, and so had spent the morning cleaning up the house and setting up the guest bedroom, just in case.

No, she decided. She would wait until she found out precisely what had happened to the boys before she attempted any diagnosis on Sam. Although she hated to admit it, she was a little frightened of what the youngest Winchester's mind might decide to do if it felt a foreign intruder attempting to enter it. Who knew how much it his 'gift' had developed over the past few months alone?

But Christ above, would the boy just _pick up the phone and dial _already!

As though Dean had heard her, the phone in the next room suddenly emitted a shrill sequence of rings. Rolling her eyes and placing her untouched herbal tea on the kitchen counter, Missouri hurried to the wretched device and grabbed the receiver while drawing up a nearby chair to sit on.

"Well it's about time! Honestly, you Winchester men are so stubborn sometimes I wonder how you brush your pearlies without having an argument with your own jaw."

She said, exasperatedly. There was a stunned silence, then an indignant:

"Hey, it's my job to dispense the humorous metaphors!"

Missouri blinked, wondering if she had heard correctly.

"What's that?"

There was indistinct muttering on the other end of the line, and from the muffled crackling it was obvious that Dean was in the car. Something about lack of appreciation for wit. Deciding to refrain from lecturing of the dangers of holding a conversation while driving, Missouri waited impatiently for Dean to stop sulking.

"Nothing." He murmured, mutinously "So, uh, I need your help with-"

Missouri cut him off, already beginning to re-plan her week around a visit from the Winchester's. let's see…she'd have to cancel the church tombola, find a substitute for the women's guild meeting, buy some clean towels and new toilet roll…oh, and hide the brandy.

"Sam. Yeah, yeah, I know. Just what have you boys been up to? I swear, that brother of yours sure knows how to give a gal a migraine." She absently rubbed her temple, wincing at the thought of the chaos she had sensed from Sam. Suddenly, a horrible thought struck her.

"You didn't have a run in with the demon, did you?"

She asked, worriedly. Dean was quick to reassure her they had not.

"Uh…no. At least, I don't think so. To be honest, I'm not really sure what happened –" He paused suddenly, turning his attention elsewhere "Sammy, get down. I'm serious. Freaky long limbs inside the car at all times when driving. "

Missouri frowned.

"You sound like you're in one piece, at least. Or you'd better be, or I'll clobber you myself with a dustpan and brush when I get my hands on you. You hearin' me, Dean?"

"Yes ma'am, in one piece, copy that." Dean said hastily, clearly distracted "But, uh, you see…SAMMY!"

The sudden yell made Missouri jump out of her skin, and she glared at the phone like it was its fault she had been caught off guard. Huffing, she pressed the receiver tightly to her ear, straining to make out the vague sounds of an argument going on between the ever abrasive brothers.

"Get your whiny head back in the damn car and roll up that fucking window before I make you sit in the back!" A muffled protest from Sam was met with a scathing "Oh yeah? Try me, mister!"

Missouri's frown deepened. Something was _off _here. Dean and Sam may bicker most of the time, but always as equals; this particular dispute sounded more like a frustrated parent reprimanding a small child than that of two fully grown men plowing into each other. Cold dread began to fill the pit of her stomach.

"That ain't a very Sam thing to do…" She murmured to herself "Dean. In what precise condition is your brother in? And make it blunt."

There was a resigned sigh, and Missouri felt guilty for being so hard on the boy as she heard the exhaustion and the fear in his voice. He was a good boy, really. With a heart of gold under that icy exterior. There was no need for her to add to his already numerous troubles; adopting a softer tone, she prompted:

"Dean, honey? Just calm down and tell me what's wrong."

Dean drew a deep breath, and a soft hum of an engine being pushed into gear indicated he had increased speed in order to express his frustration.

"Okay. Blunt it is. Basically, he's acting like a freakin' three year old. An emotionally distraught one. And the worst of it is–"

Dean broke off, and groaned.

"Sam, what the FUCK? Hang on, Missouri, you gotta give me a mo…"

There was a soft thump as the phone was presumably tossed aside, and Missouri only managed a half-protest before she became too intrigued by what she heard from the angsting elder Winchester, who seemed to have reached the end of his patience:

"Alright. Out. In the back. Now." He said sharply. Missouri strained to hear Sam's response, but it was a very quiet mutter, and she couldn't quite make it out. What the _hell _was going on out there? Sam acting like a small child? What on earth could possibly do that? And why? She shivered a little at the thought of tall, mature, intellectual Sam Winchester reverting to a sulky toddler. It was quite the weirdest thing she had ever heard of in her life.

Meanwhile, Dean was apparently having trouble in getting through to his stubborn little brother.

"I warned you and you didn't listen, so get in the back. And don't give me that look, I'm pissed and knackered and it's not going to work. Move it."

A very long silence, and sounds of disgruntled and morose movement indicated that Sam had decided to back down. A car door opened and then abruptly slammed shut, and Dean emitted a quiet sigh, his tone growing less coarse as he apparently calmed down:

"Alright, alright, it's okay, don't be like that…no, I'm not angry." He paused "Well. Maybe a bit. But I'm tired and I'm stressed and you're _really _not helping right now, Sammy. Just…sit and count trees or something. And don't talk."

More opening and closing of doors, the receiver crackling as it was retrieved, and the sound of an engine being pushed into gear once more.

"Right, as I was saying-"

Missouri cut him off, a grim frown marring her normally mild features.

"Don't you bother about any of that, boy. Get your scrawny Winchester asses over here before things get teary. I think I've heard enough. I'd like to help. You hear me?"

As well as she could, anyway. Damn, but no wonder the boys were protective of each other. Wending their way through the world with hardly a speck of help or compassion from anyone but themselves. And their Daddy, of course, but John Winchester was not exactly the most affectionate and understanding of Fathers. But he loved his boys, and that was what mattered.

"Uh…thanks, I think…" Dean muttered with genuine if grudging relief "But, there's just one more thing…"

He trailed off, and Missouri pinched the bridge of her nose and inhaled deeply. Drawing herself up, she readied herself for the most extreme scenarios she could conjure.

"I figured there might be." She said quietly, apprehensively awaiting the elder Winchester's response. Dean hesitated, the rumblings of the car filling the empty static over the line.

"Sammy…well, he…did what you do. To me." He said, stiffly, as though he had to grapple to force each word from his throat. Missouri blinked, feeling a numb cold fill her chest. No. Surely not. Not now. Not yet.

"Jeepers. He read your mind?" She inquired solemnly, and Dean made an odd sound which was somewhere between a groan and a sigh. Clearly he did not enjoy this particular problem seeming any more real than it already was.

"I'm not sure, I…it sure as hell seemed like it."

Missouri nodded, hastily switching the phone to her other ear as she reached for a pen and paper.

"Alright. Even more reason for you to get here as quick as you can. And it might be an idea to call your Daddy. He around?"

She said distractedly, beginning to jot down a list of protective substances she was running low on. Hm. Crossroad dirt, essence of elderflower, graveyard dirt…meanwhile, the cold silence on the other end of the line grew to Arctic proportions.

"Been there, done that, got the fucking 'recorded message' t-shirt." Dean stated with impassive malice which seemed just too casual "He won't come. But thanks for the offer. We'll be there in a few. But only because I don't know what else to do. Got it?"

He said, rather rudely, clearly riled by the mention of John. Missouri bristled and straightened up.

"Boy don't you take that tone with me-"

The line went dead with sudden finality, and Missouri looked at the offending receiver in disbelief, before shrugging and slamming the contraption down into the cradle. She sighed.

"Well, he's got more of his Momma in him than he cares to admit, that boy."

Dean did not receive his gung-ho, devil may care attitude from his Father, despite appearances. John was more the quiet type, who intimidated through strength of presence and subtle power. No. Missouri had known the Winchester couple a while before the night of the fire; a particular incident where she had witnessed the hot-tempered Mary tear a sizeable strip out of a seven foot truck-driver who had bumped a dent into the side of the Impala came to mind, and she chuckled. The guy had gone away ashamed and scorned by the time Mary had finished with him. Incredible.

Dean was not aware that the Impala had once belonged to his Mother. Still, maybe he felt a natural affinity with the car regardless. A subconscious vibe, allowing him to be close to Mary. Who knew. God, Dean looked like his Mother, too. Same eyes, same nose, same proud chin, same face, same fiery will and determination shining from somewhere deep inside. Although, Dean did not inherit Mary's gentler side. That, without a doubt, went to Sam.

Missouri mounted the first step of the stairway, muttering to herself, a small smile curling her lips as she thought

"Better break out the fresh towels, Moseley. The Winchester boys are coming to town. Hm. Maybe the rock salt and some damn strong fabric detergent, too. The stains hunters leave, with the blood and the mud and God knows what else, I swear…"

-----------------------------

"Dean?"

Dean nearly jumped right out of his skin as the quiet voice broke the stony silence. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision, fogged as it was with exhaustion, he glanced to the wing mirror. There, Sam's reflection gazed disconsolately at him.

"Yeah?" He muttered, snapping his eyes back to the road. It felt very weird not having Sam up front. The wide open space beside him was cold and starkly empty; it was almost as though the real Sam had been physically whisked away, and he was left with the lurking shadow in the back seat.

In truth, Sam's new state of mind was grating on his nerves. His brother was now extremely emotionally volatile; switching from extreme bouts of hysteric hissy fits to sulky silences, to sad reproachful vigils, and finally to strangely blank periods where his eyes grew disturbingly dark. Dean hated it. He had not had to deal with such youthful ambiguity since he himself had been eight years old, and even then Sam had been a complacent and affectionate child, not at all prone to the sulks of the common toddler. It just didn't add up.

Plus, it was downright odd to have childish mannerisms like _sticking your tongue out for the love of Steve McQueen _coming from the normally reserved and freakishly adult Sam Winchester.

"I'm tired. And hungry." Sam stated quietly, his mood unreadable. Sam had been genuinely taken aback when Dean had thoroughly reprimanded and punished him for not being polite when Dean was on the phone. Dean groaned. God, he sounded almost exactly like _Dad. _This was a nightmare.

"Yeah, I know. Me too." Dean replied absently, quietly cursing every power known to him for his current predicament. Gritting his teeth, he barely refrained from slamming his head against the steering wheel.

_Fuck it all, I need a drink…_

As though a miracle from on high had occurred, a bright neon sign proclaiming '24 hr Bar' suddenly lit up just a few hundred yards ahead, and Dean, for the first time in his life, felt blessed. Sitting up a little straighter, he glanced back at his brother.

"Hey, Sammy." He said, casually "Reckon you're up to going to a bar?"

Surely it couldn't hurt. Just this one small mercy. As long as Sam did what he said and he kept an eye on the kid, it should be fine. Sam frowned, although there was no suspicion clouding his features, and Dean was suddenly glad for toddler-Sam's implicit trust in him.

"Like the ones Dad used to go to?" Sam asked, and Dean nodded eagerly. Sam wrinkled his nose in distaste "They smell funny."

Dean nodded distractedly, the car pulling into the parking lot, his mind already on a few healthy beers and blissful alcoholic intoxication.

"Just for a little while, kiddo. Whadd'ya say?" He said coaxingly, his tone softer than it had been for many years when addressing his little brother. It almost felt good, to be able to talk to Sam like this without feeling too embarrassed.

Sam reached up with one hand to rub at his eyes tiredly. After stifling a yawn, he lifted one shoulder, and then dropped it in a shrug.

"If you like."

-----------------------------

Sam huddled close behind Dean as they entered the bar. It was very loud, dark, but colourful and confusing. Sam wasn't very sure he liked it, but he knew Dean wanted to be here, and he didn't want to upset him again. Dean had shouted at him earlier; he'd never done that before. It had scared Sam quite a bit.

They made their way through the crowd, Dean plowing through like he owned the place, Sam keeping so close to his back he actually slammed into him a few times. Every time that happened, Dean would shoot him an annoyed look, and Sam winced and hung his head. He couldn't seem to do anything right. No wonder Dean was annoyed with him.

Finally, they drew near to a small table in a corner by the bar, and Sam breathed a quiet sigh of relief. The crowd was oppressive and the people bore grotesque expressions on their slack-jawed faces. Sam didn't know what was wrong with them, but he didn't want it to happen to Dean, or him, for that matter. Dean reached the table and turned to see Sam still making his way cautiously through the crowd, having fallen behind. Sam saw Dean roll his eyes, before he marched over to Sam, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him over to the corner.

Steering Sam down to sit onto the small stool beside the table, Dean ran a hand through his hair, glanced around, then fixed his brother with a strange look. Indecision, Sam thought. Dean didn't know what to do with him.

"Okay, um…just stay here, at the table. Don't move. I'm going to go get a drink. Want anything?"

Dean obviously wanted to get away from him as soon as he could; Sam forced the hurt he felt at this realization away, knowing it would only make Dean angrier if he was sad about it. Dad had said to him once that as Dean got older, he would probably want to spend less and less time with him. He said that Dean was bigger than Sam and sometimes needed space. That was okay. Sam wanted Dean to be happy, but it didn't stop it hurting, just a bit.

"Orange juice." He murmured, not looking up at his brother.

_Oh, man. Dean Winchester asking for an **orange** **juice** in a place like this? I can feel my 'cool' factor plummeting from here, complete with mournful buzz…_

Sam flinched violently as a sharp pain in the base of his skull flared, and rubbed at the back of his head as Dean muttered exasperatedly to himself and headed towards the bar. He had done it _again. _He should just stay away from Dean. But he didn't want to. He didn't have anywhere else to go. And…Dean was just…there. Always.

"Hey there."

Sam's head snapped up, to find a tall woman standing right in front of him, holding a half-drunk glass of something yellowy-red. Sam blushed as she smiled at him; she was very pretty. He normally didn't like girls; they were giggly and girly and liked to play with dolls. This woman didn't seem particularly nasty, but there was something in her eyes that made Sam shy away. It was sharp and dark and dangerous, and he shuddered, feeling suddenly cold.

"Mind if I sit here, doll?" She asked liltingly, fluttering eyelashes caked with flaking mascara. Sam shook his head, heat flushing to his cheeks and making him feel dizzy, his hair falling into his eyes.

"Sorry, miss. I don't talk to strangers." He said squeakily, his voice a little too high-pitched for his liking. He cleared his throat, and frowned as she blinked in surprise, then laughed raucously. Her teeth were very white and very straight. It was unnatural. She sat down opposite, still laughing, and Sam wrinkled his nose as he smelt something rancid and bitter on her breath.

"I like you." She slurred, reaching out an unsteady hand towards his face. He jerked away, his back slamming into the wall, blushing furiously. She laughed again "You're funny. And cute."

Sam's frown deepened as she leant closer; he didn't like being called sweet or cute or anything like that. Silly women always did that, ruffling his hair and pinching his cheeks. He looked around the bar desperately, eyes searching frantically for any sign of Dean, but he found nothing. Swallowing thickly, he turned his gaze back to the woman.

"I'm not." He said, stiffly, folding his arms defensively across his chest. She tilted her head to the side, looking him over, then smirked and licked her overly-red lips. Sam felt a surge of revulsion turn his stomach over.

"I'm Polly, by the way."

Sam said nothing, fixing his eyes one an ashtray in the centre of the table; he had resolved to ignore this woman until she went away, then find Dean and ask him if they could leave. He didn't like it here. His muscles were cramping up and his head felt heavy.

Suddenly, a clumsy finger poked him hard in the chest, and he nearly fell off his stool.

"Hey! It's rude not to tell someone your name when they talk to you, you know." The woman, Polly, said indignantly. Sam schooled his features into what he hoped was the cold, blank look Dean always used when he wanted people to leave him alone.

"Sam." He muttered after a long silence, and her smile widened.

"Well, Sammy. What're you doing in this shit hole?"

Sam shrank as far as he could back into the corner, wishing desperately that Dean would hurry up and come back. Polly kept edging closer and closer to him, and his skin had begun to prickle in warning.

"Getting a drink." He blurted out suddenly, desperate for her to stop moving closer. Thankfully, she gave him a confused look, and glanced down at the table.

"Doesn't look like you are." She said, gesturing to the absence of a glass on the table. She considered him for a moment "You here alone?"

Sam did not answer. His heart had begun to pound harder and harder in his chest, panic coursing through him like poison. The room seemed to be growing darker and darker, pressing in on him, chokingly oppressive.

"Well, seeing as you haven't got a drink, hows about you have mine? I don't really want it anyway, I'm half pissed." Said Polly, waving her half empty glass in front of his nose. Sam inhaled sharply, and was surprised to find that he smelt something sweet and tantalizing in the glass. He slowly unfolded himself from the corner, cautiously staring at the liquid sloshing before his eyes.

"What is it?" He asked, hesitantly. A brief flash of triumph passed across Polly's gaze before it had abruptly vanished, and she smiled coaxingly, taking his hand and wrapping it around the cool surface of the glass.

"Don't really know, doll. Tastes good, though. Try it."

Sam raised the glass to his lips, and glanced uncertainly at Polly, who nodded encouragingly, watching his face intently. Tipping the glass suddenly back, Sam took a hefty mouthful, a sickly sweet taste spilling out lavishly across his tongue. He swallowed.

"Ugh! It burns." He exclaimed, making a disgusted face as the bitter aftertaste seared across his throat. The liquid slipped down inside him, forming a not entirely unpleasant warmth in the pit of his stomach. Polly leant back, chuckling quietly.

"It's supposed to, sweetie. You a lightweight or something?"

Sam blinked in confusion at the foreign phrase "A what?"

Polly rolled her eyes, and gestured for him to take another swig. "Nevermind. Just drink it."

Sam did, relieved to find that the darkness of the room was slowly spiraling into inconsistency, the burning of the alcohol growing duller with each swallow.

-----------------------------

After quite a few more of the strange drink, Sam wasn't feeling so good. The room was spinning around, making him feel sick, and the dull pounding in his head had grown into a torrential roar. Slumping against the wall, he gritted his teeth and gripped the table with white-knuckled fingers, trying to maintain a hold on reality.

Polly watched him hungrily, tilting her head as he reeled from side to side, seemingly savoring his every movement. When she held up yet another tall glass of the chilled, steamy-glassed liquid, Sam shook his head jerkily, then groaned as a wave of nausea crippled his stomach.

"No. Don' ree-lly wan' it." He slurred, and she pouted, her expression suddenly growing sinister. Sam struggled to focus as he felt a hand close around the back of his neck, long fingernails digging into his skin.

"Yes you do, Sammy. Drink it." The rim of the glass was pressed insistently against his lips, and Sam pressed his mouth shut, weakly trying to master his own unresponsive limbs to move away, but his body seemed to be all over the place.

"…no…" he whispered, and as he opened his mouth the liquid was shoved violently past his gritted teeth. He choked.

"Hey buddy! What you fucking doing with my Pol, huh? You wanna figh'? Son of a-"

A loud and abrasive voice roared in his head, and he clapped his hands over his ears, flinching. Looking up, he found four…no, eight? Three? He couldn't focus…some men standing in front of the table. Polly had moved suddenly away from him, looking at the newcomers. Sam groaned. A sea of angry faces with skinhead haircuts and nose piercings swam before him, and he knew he was in trouble.

_Get away. Find Dean. _The last rational part of his brain left lucid ordered, and Sam nodded in obedience, standing unsteadily from the stool.

"No, Sir, I was…jus' leavin..."

He stumbled, attempting to get around the tallest and beefiest figure, but was shoved hard back into the wall. He hissed in pain as he felt bruising from almost immediately. They closed in, rolling their shoulders with a crackling of grinding joints and tensing muscle.

"Ya were, ya bastard. Now yer not leavin' till I've messed up that prissy face o' yers!"

Blinding panic filling his inebriated vision as the tallest man drew back a huge fist, Sam's unresponsive brain supplied him with a last-ditch attempt to get himself out of this mess:

"If you hit me, Dean will get you!" he blurted, then felt himself blushing with mortification. Great. Now he'd gotten Dean involved, too. His brother would kill him if these bozos didn't get there first.

Strangely, this statement seemed to have stalled the men for a moment, whose own un-intellectually blessed brains tried to make sense of their cowering and squeaky prey's odd behaviour. Most people they picked on had begun pleading by this point, but this kid seemed to be distracted; their thug minds finally overcoming the momentary shock, the men bristled in indignation, baring their teeth.

"Who the fuck's Dean? Yer boyfriend?"

Loud guffaws followed this, and that annoying rational part of Sam's brain began unhelpfully pointing out to him that Dean couldn't be his boyfriend, because Dean was his brother and anything beyond hugging was just EW.

"Jus' let me go, please. I don' like it here. I jus' wanna go home. Please, mister…" Sam heard himself say, his mouth seeming to decide that if Sam was just going to sit there and get hit, then it might as well make a final bid for freedom.

Thug number One, of course, was utterly flummoxed (not that he knew what that word meant, but it sounded good) by his prey's continued display of childish cowardice. Blinking stupidly he whirled on Polly, who had been not-so-subtly sidling away from the soon to be punch-up.

"Wha? Whys he talkin' like that? Pol, you whore! You talkin' to a fuckin' tard or summat? He got sumthin wrong up there?"

Polly shrugged unconcernedly, flicking her long hair over her shoulder. Sam was disturbed to note that she seemed to be sliding in and out of focus, alternately sprouting a twin and then becoming normal again. He didn't know whores could perform mitosis.

Wait, what?

"Dunno, Steve. Seemed a bit out of it when I talked to him. Maybe he's a druggie or something. He just came over and started comin' on ta me!"

Polly jerked an accusing finger at Sam, and Thug number One released an inhuman, strangled roar and rounded on Sam, followed quickly by Thug number Two, Three and Four. And maybe Five, Six, and Seven, Sam couldn't really tell.

"You FUCKIN'-"

Sam flinched and held up his hands in defense, indignant at the accusation when he should have been more concerned with his immediate predicament.

"That's not true! I-"

An enormous weight impacted with the side of his head, and Sam's world compressed and suddenly exploded, stars streaming before his vision in a million pinpricks of light. His head slammed back against the wall, his brain feeling as though it was jumping out of his skull. He detachedly felt himself slide to the floor, before large, sausage like fingers curled about his neck and squeezed painfully. He immediately gagged, struggling to breath, hands weakly scrabbling at the thugs hold.

He was thrown upwards and slammed against the wall, his feet dangling a couple of inches from the ground. The pressure building in his head was immense; he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, his lungs felt as though they had collapsed in on themselves, screaming for air.

"Yer gonna die, kid." A voice thick with bloodlust hissed in his face, hot breath laden with alcohol burning his skin "Ya hear? Ya gonna-"

"HEY!"

A familiar voice was shouting over the uproar, and Sam was abruptly released as Thug number One grunted in pain, then growled in fury. Sam's knees gave way as he crumpled down the wall, his head reeling and his entire body shaking, dark spots dancing before his swirling vision.

He keeled to the side, his temple catching the hard edge of the table with resounding force. Gasping breathlessly, he closed his eyes as he slumped limply to the floor, body still wracked with tremors as chaos descended about him.

…_Dean…_

Darkness.

-----------------------------

**A/N: Hee! Poor Sammy's head gonna hurt in the morning…**

**Has anyone noticed that Dean actually looks almost identical to his Mom? I'm serious! If you find a close up of Mary's face and compare it with Dean's they're the spit of each other. Minus the bright blonde hair and Dean is a male Mary!**

**Oh, and although Sam may think that brotherly fluff is 'ew' (remember, he is technically only three or four years old right now) I assure you this authoress has absolutely no quibbles with it! ;) Okay, weirdness aside…**

**Next chapter: Dean comically kicks some ass, the thugs decide to retire and become well-meaning charitable citizens, Sam gets told off AGAIN, and the boys finally come face to face with what has been plaguing Sam's mind. Woot!**

**Thanks for reading:) Please take some time to give a naughty, lazy, undeserving writer some feedback!**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: An awesome response for the last chapter, thanks, y'all! It's very much appreciated. I originally planned to make more of drunk!Sam in here, but Kripke got there first, unfortunately. Ah well, he did it better than I could have done!**

**Disclaimer: Why, I'm flattered you'd think I owned it. Unfortunately, I don't. Please don't sue a poor, unhappy little English girl, Mr Kripke!**

**This one's a biggie! Enjoy, y'all!**

**14.**

Dean honestly hadn't meant to leave Sam alone for so long; he'd just needed room to breathe, a quick break. God, this whole situation…it was driving him insane. Hell, _Sam _was driving him insane, although he hated to admit it. It wasn't that he didn't _love _the kid…(he winced at this thought) but his constant demand on big brother's attention was draining, and something Dean hadn't had to cope with for years. He was exhausted.

He _missed _Sam. The Sam who gave him sarcastic looks and bit-back at his snide remarks. The passionate young man with a maturity and determination which constantly surprised him. The Sam he knew would watch his back, the Sam that he ultimately respected and trusted with his life.

Realizing the cliché sappiness of his previous thoughts, he quickly shook his head and swallowed. He needed a drink. He needed to drown this care-bear crap in alcohol.

He would just escape to the bar for a breather, he had told himself; order the drinks, exchange brief, idle chit-chat with the barman and head back to 'Sammy-watch' refreshed and stocked up on pain-dulling liquor. A flawless, completely foolproof, super special awesomely infallible plan. In and out, back to Sam in a flash, no harm done.

Or so he thought.

But then there had been this girl...and _what _a girl…and one thing had led to another. After all, he wasn't superman; he was a naturally horny red-blooded male specimen, and a damn fine one, if he said so himself, which he did. Often. He'd kept his eye on the clock; just a few minutes more couldn't possibly hurt. Besides, he was listening out for any signs of distress from Sam's general direction. He figured he wouldn't be getting much action with his loveable but undeniably clingy even-littler-than-usual-in-the-mental-sense-little brother around, so…just a few minutes.

It had turned out to be 'just a few minutes' too long. But Dean, engrossed in lapping up the attention of the simply luscious blonde in front of him, wasn't to know that.

"How's about we head somewhere more private, huh?" He murmured, and she giggled.

Fortunately or unfortunately, not a few seconds towards a secluded backroom and his big brother guilt vibes had already kicked in. He had made this mistake before; he had put Cassie before Sam and look how well that had turned out. The blonde frowned, raised a thin eyebrow and gave him an encouraging tug towards the door. Dean looked at her, feeling the true Dean who had sunk beneath layers of lust and adrenaline stir and give him a reproachful look.

He rolled his eyes and groaned. Hot Sex VS Little Brother. Hm.

"Sorry, sweetheart;" He sighed, and she frowned, confused "no contest. Maybe I'll drop by later…much later."

Her face fell in disappointment, but she shrugged a shoulder unconcernedly. "S'alright." She said, and folded her arms across her chest "Girl back home tuggin' at ya conscience?"

Dean chuckled, never passing up on a chance to insult his little brother's masculinity.

"Something like that." Feeling oddly light-headed, he moved through the crowd with practiced ease, a frown marring his features. Sometimes, he didn't understand himself. But then, he reasoned, he didn't really need to. Well-needed stress relief could wait until Sam was in the all clear. Maybe for a while after, too. Still. It was unlike him to be so…easily swayed.

Unable to see the corner where he had left Sam through the crowd, he strained his ears as he fought his way over, then froze as he heard a coarse voice suddenly pierce the dull hum of the bar:

"You FUCKIN'-"

There was a crash, and vague curses. Dean could his heart beginning to beat faster, some sixth sense screaming at him. Just a random bunch of drunks. Nothing to worry about. Right?

"That's not true! I-"

_Shit. _Dean's blood ran cold. He should have _known _Sam would end up in some kind of trouble without him there to play watchdog. Shit, shit, shit. He should never have left him. Elbowing several disgruntled customers out of way as he hurried over to the corner, Dean continued to curse under his breath. His heartbeat roared in his ears, every beat pulsating painfully against his skull, like a mantra, muscles tensing in anticipation.

Finally barging into the small clear space outside the semi-circle of thugs surrounding Sam's corner, Dean took in the scene with a mounting torrent of anger which threatened to overwhelm him completely.

The largest (and, inevitably, ugliest) thug of the lot was standing in front of the small semi-circle, an enormous beefy fist clenched at his side. The other was wrapped vice-like around Sam's horribly fragile looking neck. Even from a distance, Dean saw the fingers tighten, digging into his little brother's skin, blood vessels bursting and bruising beneath his grip.

Dean's mind went blank, a dull roaring filling his ears.

"Ya gonna die, kid."

The roar grew louder and louder, and a vein pulsed in Dean's temple. His entire body was seizing up, trembling with suppressed energy, his chest on fire as he breathed quick and deep breaths in anticipation. His heart was pumping so hard he felt it would burst.

"Ya hear? Ya gonna-"

The raw terror in Sam's eyes filled every corner of Dean's mind, fuelling the already scorching blaze which grew and grew and grew until it engulfed any conscious thought he had left in him.

"HEY!"

With every ounce of strength he possessed, Dean briefly bent his knees and lunged through a gap in the wall of thugs. The impact of his passing was so great that the two went reeling, but he did not stop. _Get to Sam! _his mind screamed at him _Get Sammy out of danger!_

A rich, dense shade of red flashed before his vision, and before any of the thugs could react he had grabbed the largest thug's wrist in one hand and brought his own elbow slamming down into the thug's tattooed elbow joint with the other. There was a grating, creaking sound as all blood drained from the thug's face, and his grip went slack. Sam crumpled to the floor like a doll, wheezing, but alive. Blessedly alive.

_The neck _a tired, bemused voice in the recesses of Dean's adrenaline-packed head muttered _why is it always the neck?_ _It's not as if there's anything particularly attractive about Sam's neck, anyway._

Wisely ignoring the voice, Dean returned to the matter at hand; the thug, who Dean had creatively christened 'Crusher', stared down at him with narrowed eyes which twitched with pain. Crusher thug's features were twisted with a mixture of anger and fear, and Dean watched with satisfaction as a trickle of sweat ran down his forehead.

"What the hell, man!" Crusher thug eventually hissed out through gritted teeth "Gerrof' me! What's your problem?"

Dean raised an eyebrow, and glanced down, just in time to see Sam's eyes go dark with unconsciousness and for his body to go limp, keel to the side and glance off the table edge before crashing to the floor. His breath caught in his chest. Although Sam's dark mop of hair obscured his face, the deep bruising of foreign, dirty hands were imprinted strikingly against the pale, sickly skin of his neck.

_Little brother. _

A cold lust to hurt this man overpowered him, and he increased the pressure on the man's trembling arm almost lovingly, a sadistic smile curling his lips. Crusher thug whimpered, and Dean savoured the sound as a thrill of rage tore through him once again, leaving him winded.

"My problem, asshole," He whispered, voice thick with hatred and a strange, cold, terrifying calm "Is that I'm under the distinct impression that you're the butt-ugly mug who just tried to strangle my little brother."

He said it with a dangerous politeness which any wiser man would have taken as a warning. Unfortunately for Crusher Thug, who was among those who had not been blessed with a reasonable amount of brain cells in the gene pool, he took this false courtesy as a sign of weakness.

Big mistake.

"That fuckin' retards yer brother?" He spat, malicious laughter filling his tone "You screwed in the head too then, huh, _bud_?"

Thoroughly convinced that Dean was no more of a threat than the average bar-brawler, Crusher Thug grinned maniacally, glancing up at his attacker with daring in his eyes. Poor bastard. His gaze met the normally guarded hazel eyes of his oppressor, and he gasped. The dude's eyes were _burning. _Raw, desperate, uncontrollable rage was scorched into Crusher Thug's dull brain like a scalding brand, and he found himself unable to look away.

"You know what?"

The cold emptiness of Dean's voice sent a shiver down the thug's spine, and he gulped, but shakily pulled a cocky smile back onto his twisted features nonetheless. Not a creature of evolution, was poor Crusher. The kid was smaller than him. He could take him.

"Wha'?" He drawled, challengingly. Dean's lips curled upwards into a sour, dangerous smile.

"I've decided I don't like you."

Crusher Thug tutted, and pouted mockingly, slamming his free, meaty fist over his heart in an expression of fake hurt. In Dean's temple, a pulse began to throb more insistently. _Wait. Not yet._

"Aw, man, I'm real aff…afro…upse' about tha'." He slurred, then laughed, the sound booming around the now strangely quiet bar. All eyes had been drawn to the confrontation in the corner, the silence blanketing the room like a suffocating veil. Nobody dared to breathe, let alone speak.

The silence stretched on. Dean's smile fell.

"You know what I do to people I don't like?"

Crusher Thug made a wide, sweeping gesture with his free hand, as in his bent position it seemed as though he was bowing to his opponent. Dean watched impassively, the man's grin silently mocking him, a gold tooth flashing in the semi-darkness as it caught the light. Unnatural. A monster? No. Just a human. Scum; but a human, nonetheless. Then again, monsters existed among men, too.

Dean knew how to deal with monsters.

"Go right ahead and show me, sonny-boy." Crusher hissed arrogantly, raising his chin to stare hard into Dean's face. _Pathetic. _A shudder passed through Dean's body, and his finger's curled tighter as he gathered all his strength in the arm which was pressing against the thug's elbow.

"With pleasure." He murmured, pleasantly, before swinging his arm down with crushing force. The bones snapped and splintered like china as Crusher Thug let out an inhumane bellow of agony, the tendons tearing under the sheer pressure. Dean remained quite still as the thug fell heavily to his knees with a crash, his face completely devoid of emotion. Crusher snapped his head around to leer through the pounding pain, cradling his arm against his chest.

"**_Fuck._**" He breathed, before Dean brought his leg around to swing his booted foot crashing into the side of the thug's head. Crusher went flying, slamming into the solid wood of the bar with a resounding thud. The other thugs hurried to their leader's aid, throwing a mixture of angry and terrified looks at Dean as they did so.

For a moment, he simply stood, breathing hard, fists clenched. Then, he heard a quiet groan behind him, and whirled around.

_Sammy. _

Dean felt like something cold and slippery had curled around his chest, suffocating the intolerable heat which had pooled there in response to his rage. He blinked, the momentary madness all but gone, and crouched shakily down beside his immobile little brother.

"Sammy…Sammy?" He called gently in a hoarse tone, his throat sore "You alright, kiddo? C'mon, talk to me."

He reached out to touch Sam's body, and froze. Memories of his little brother lying, seemingly dead and perishing with cold in the middle of a rain swept road assaulted his mind, and he flinched. Clenching his jaw, he carefully pushed aside the mess of dark hair which obscured Sam's face. He frowned. Sam was still, but his brow was typically furrowed, eyes clearly roving beneath closed lids. The tips of Dean's fingers brushed against no clammy, undead cold but steady, reassuring warmth, sticky with sweat. He could practically feel the blood pumping frantically beneath the surface, flushing his little brother's face with a healthy glow in the aftermath of near-strangulation.

Speaking of which…Thug number Two had decided to try his luck at avenging his fallen Thug master of Thuggery.

"Son of a BITC-"

He was forced to choke off the end of his exclamation, as Dean's knee rose then snapped backwards, sending his foot slamming into Thug Two's left kneecap with deadly accuracy. _Snap. _Thug Two howled and went head over heels, landing with a crash and entangling himself in chair legs and shards of broken drink's glasses. The remaining two thugs stared at the back of Dean's head; he hadn't even bothered to look. He had simply judged the guy's approach by what all his senses except his sight had told him.

_Thu-thud _the vibrations sent from the floor to his knees _clu-clunk _the noise of the impact of clumsy feet. Oh, yes. Even with 99 of his attention absorbed with Sam, the thug was still clear as day in a well-trained corner of his mind. Never let it be said that John Winchester wasted their childhood. The thugs gasped and backed even further into the comforting solidity of the bar.

"Damn, that looks nasty…" Dean muttered absently, gently probing the unnatural bump where Sam had whacked his head on the side of the table. His skin prickled in warning. The sooner they got out of here, the better. He could almost hear the gears turning in the thug's heads, grinding and groaning from disuse. It would take a while, but eventually, they would regroup and try again. Dean sighed, then beamed cheerfully, patting Sam's cheek while lowering his head slowly to the floor.

"S'okay, Sammy," He rubbed his hands together, suddenly all smiles "you just lie still for a tick while I emphasize a few little issues I got with these dickwads, then we can get the hell out of here."

Using the tip of his toes as a pivot, he turned sharply around to face the group of thugs; Crusher Thug was halfway through a slow and shaky return to lucidity, which was promptly thrown completely off kilter as his gaze met Dean's.

"Okay. Listen up, and listen good, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once."

He paused, his eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

"I ever," he kept his tone soft, but it pierced the air like a dart "catch you within three miles of my brother again, you'll be pissin' from sweet nothing's for the rest of your life. Which, luckily for you, would be real short. Clear?"

Dean took the stunned silence as a disturbed affirmative. Turning back to Sam, he quickly and efficiently pulled his brother's limp arm across his shoulders and pulled, wrapping a hand around Sam's waist, hauling him jerkily upright. He grunted. No more burgers and fries for this Winchester for a while, if his aching muscles were to have anything to do with it.

"Come on, Sam. Up is good. Easy, easy…"

Sam groaned quietly, long limbs flailing all over the place. Dean gave his brother's arm another insistent tug, moving him higher over his shoulder, and watched as Sam's half-conscious body automatically found its feet and stood on them shakily.

"Deeeeeee…an?" He slurred thickly, turning his disorientated head towards Dean. Sam winced, eyelids peeling back to reveal normally sharp eyes dulled with pain, exhaustion and alcohol. Dean wrinkled his nose. _Ugh. _He could smell tequila on Sam's breath, and was horribly reminded of hazy nights when their Father would hug a confused five year old Dean close and cry bitterly, the thick stench of whisky practically suffocating the gagging child. But he never pulled away. Dad had only ever held him when he was drunk after the night of the fire.

He shuddered.

"Why'sa…room spin…ning?" Sam forced out, blinking in genuine confusion. Dean sighed. For a moment, he'd forgotten. Sam's addled, toddler-esque mind probably couldn't quite comprehend the effects of alcohol. He had been careful to shield Sam from that when they were young. To this day, Sam wasn't exactly fond of the stuff. He hated not being in control of his own actions. The poor kid probably thought he was ill or something.

"Latest craze, Sammy. Virtual inebriation; bars designed to give the impression you're drunk without you swallowing a drop of alcohol."

He walked briskly as he spoke, his mind on autopilot, spouting meaningless nonsense which somehow made humorous sense. Sam blinked hazily, concentrating on keeping his legs from falling out from under him. His dead weight was awkward, but somehow felt right, to Dean.

"Uh…?" Sam inquired vaguely, eyes drooping with tiredness. Dean blinked, surprised to find himself right beside the door to the bar, the crowd having scuttled to the walls to avoid him. He sighed. He was starting to have that sort of effect on people; he hoped he wasn't turning into Dad. Before he knew it people would start pulling shotguns on him for no apparent reason.

"Nothing." Dean muttered, feeling a tired ache begin to settle deep within him. He relaxed, just slightly, as he kicked the door to the bar open and headed out into the cool, dark night air " Come on, let's get-"

**WHAM. **

"Not so fucking cocky now, are ya, bastard!"

"**_DEAN!_**"

-----------------------------

Sam's head was pounding harder than it had ever pounded before. The world tilted on its axis, first left, then right, making bile rise in his throat as he fought the urge to throw up. His stomach felt heavy, and the burn of the alcohol continued to seep into him, dulling his senses. He was just drifting into a pleasant, rhythmic pattern of swaying, letting Dean lead the way, when a loud shout and a sudden impact sent Dean crashing straight into his side.

He cried out as they hit the ground in a tangled heap, hard. He gritted his teeth and forced the nausea away. Although his eyes were scrunched tightly shut he was aware of Dean's considerable weight sprawled across his back, making it difficult to draw breath. For a moment, he lay still, panting, letting the chaos wash over him crippling beats.

"No-one bests Knuckle Karl in a figh'. No-one!"

The voice sounded fuzzy and indistinct, like a broken record. Dean's weight moved unsteadily off him, and he could hear the jagged breathing from above him as his brother levered himself upright. _Move! _He screamed at himself, willing his shaking limbs to co-operate _help Dean. Get away. _

"Knuckle Karl?" Dean's voice spat, and Sam felt a surge of pride and affection for his brother "You're kidding, right? Still, you get brownie points for a valiant attempt at alliteration, I suppose-"

Dean broke off, and there was a horrible, sickening crunching sound, then the creaking of strained bone. A sharp gasp. Sam's eyes flew open.

There were more. More thugs, larger ones. Very, very bad men, Sam could see. All gathered around them in a tight circle. The one Dean had hit, the one who had tried to…Sam shivered, his hand's flying to his neck. He winced. The man was strong.

Dean was bent over, his forehead almost touching the concrete paving, face twisted in agony. The biggest thug had his right arm locked behind his back at an odd angle, and his huge foot pressed down on the small of his brother's back, pushing him down. Dean was pinned. Helpless. _No. _Not Dean. Dean never lost a fight, even against the bigger people…

Sam placed his palms against the paving beneath him and pushed with all his might, forcing himself upwards, his heart banging against his ribs. He swallowed. He was scared. It was dark, and the fluorescent, flickering glare of the bar light's cast contorted shadows across them.

_But I have to do **something!**_

Dean was never afraid; Dean was always brave. That meant he had to be brave, too, no matter how big and scary these people were. Something tickled within his mind; a whispering, growing more and more insistent. Sam was suddenly painfully aware of the confusion which fogged his mind. _If only…_

"Stop it!" He exclaimed, as Dean let out a grunt of pain. The thug slowly turned his head too look at Sam, his eyes mad, but Sam was too busy comprehending the horrible, horrible reality that Dean was in pain; and it was his fault.

_**Pain. **Dark road. Blood on the ceiling. Red. Dean. All your fault._

"Shut your trap, ya freakin' tard!" The thug spat, and Sam flinched, then cursed himself. Weak, pathetic. _Come on, Sam! Snap out of it!_

"Please, stop hurting my brother! I'm sorry! I'm sorry for drinking the girl's drink and annoying you, just leave Dean alone!"

He just couldn't do it; he couldn't summon the will to erase his fear. He was only little, small, insignificant, weak. Dean was the strong one. But…Dean was in trouble. He had to help. Had to do it. He'd promised…he had to grow stronger. Yes. He had to protect Dean, get to Dean, because…because…otherwise…

_The figure raised a curved, gleaming blade of metal, brought it carefully to poise just beside the exposed skin of Dean's neck-_

His upper arms were grabbed in a vice like grip, and he tensed, clenching his jaw and kicking frantically with his legs as he was dragged up. His head lolled around, too heavy to hold upright, swimming with drowsy confusion. _I'm mad _he thought, stunned _I must be mad. _

The tickle in his mind grew into an itch; it stung sharply, and he hissed in pain.

"Guess what, kid?"

_The blade slit clean through the tender flesh of Dean's neck, violent spouts of crimson life fluid rising high through the air and spattering the bonnet of the Impala with dark blood. _

No.

_Sammy, Sammy, Sammy…why fight? You can't beat me…_

"I'm gonna beat yer boyfriend or yer brother or whatever till his ribs break in. Then I'm gonna kick his head till his brains drain outta his ears. Then I'm gonna snap every bone left in his body. And you're gonna watch."

NO.

_You couldn't save him. Look at you, you're weak…run run run as fast as you can…but you can't catch me, your brother's a dead man!_

**NO!**

A burst of clarity as all the walls in Sam's mind broke simultaneously, the fog clearing with a high pitched scream. Memories came pouring in, brick upon brick which built the strange entity that was Sam Winchester. Dad. Mom. _Dean. _They defined him.

He couldn't see, but somehow, he could feel the heat seeping from the two men who held his arms. He didn't hesitate. Cherishing the abrupt awareness and control he had over his body, he brought his long legs whirling around, tripping the thug's and sending them flying backwards. He didn't stop. Dispatching one in the face with a quick elbow and the other in the stomach with a clenched fist, he stood, tensed and practically crackling with energy.

Mere seconds had passed, and the thug who was holding Dean turned his head as if in slow motion towards him, looking over his shoulder.

A small smirk, too wryly embittered to belong to a four year old, wound its way around Sam's lips. He took a short step forward on his left leg, raised his right knee, and swung his right leg between the thug's leg and…ahem…_upwards_ with crushing force.

_If worse comes to worse, get em good in the goolies, son. _John Winchester's disembodied voice drifted across Sam's mind, and he found himself grinning. The thug choked and released Dean, slipping sideways, hands otherwise occupied.

"No…way…" Crusher thug gagged, twitching with spasms of pain. A sarcastic little voice in Sam's head tsked quietly. That was going to leave a mark. Eyes flitting from thug to thug, he walked, slowly, until he stood in front of Dean's crouched form. This would call for some teasing later.

A spasm of pain flitted across his brain, accompanied by the soft whispers as tendrils of fog began to engulf him once more. He clutched his temple, his smile faltering. Or perhaps not.

"Leave."

He stated, bluntly, latching on to the last rational fragment of himself he could find in his head and holding on, just a little longer, as the fog grew thicker and thicker and everything began to lose its meaning.

"Leave before I kill you."

He was vaguely aware of the thug's departing; his head ached. He felt as though he was shrinking inside his very skin, confusion overpowering the momentary understanding, clogging up his whole body. He clutched his temple as the last wave of agony washed over him, that sarcastic little voice managing one last epitaph before it, too, was consumed:

_Well, this fucking **sucks**. _

-----------------------------

"Dean…"

Sam's quiet mutter brought Dean back to himself with a sharp jolt. His brain had been too busy trying to process what he had just seen. No. Surely he was mistaken, right? Sammy _hated _violence with a passion, preferring to resolve issues through negotiation. His little brother would never own someone that thoroughly unless he was pissed off beyond reason. And especially not…well…_there._

"Hey, Sammy…"

That had been, quite probably, one of the rare moments when Dean considered his little brother to be as cool as he was. No, scratch cool!

"That was awesome, man!" Dean exclaimed, grinning like a maniac as he clambered wearily to his feet "Freakin' awesome. You rule! Got him right in the nethers…priceless!"

Filing the image of the Thug's face as Sam's size twelve boots collided with his privates away, Dean resolved to save it for desperate moments when he needed a good chuckle. Sam stared at him, dumbfounded, and more than a little out of it. He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped, his lanky frame seeming even more spindly than normal. Dean couldn't really blame him. Sam looked about as bad as he himself felt.

Feeling drained but somehow exhilarated in thrill of the evening, Dean pulled himself upright, giving Sam a once-over as he did so. He didn't seem too bad. He was standing, after all. Satisfied, but deciding to take a closer look when they were somewhere safer, Dean checked himself. A few bruises here and there. Glancing down at his right arm as it gave a particularly painful throb, he flexed his fingers, and flinched violently.

"You're hurt."

Sam's thin voice sounded scandalized, lost somewhere between disbelief, shock, guilt and a thousand other emotions Dean couldn't really bear to deal with right now. He brought his forearm carefully up before his face, drawing a deep breath, counting to ten. One, thumb. Two, forefinger. Three, middle finger. Four, fourth finger, five, little finger.

Slowly, he let his breath out. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

"It's alright, kiddo. I'm okay." He said, injecting as much re-assurance as he could manage into his tone. His wrist wasn't broken, certainly. But it could be sprained, and pretty nastily too. Still. No need to bother Sam with that. Dean glanced at his brother's face, his little brother's terribly expressive features broadcasting his guilt like a claxon horn.

"I'm sorry." Sam murmured, quietly, head bowed, wringing his hands and pulling at the sleeves of his shirt nervously. Dean sighed. Even in his lanky, six foot form, it was clear that Sam still possessed the mind of a child. He looked so odd, so out of place, and Dean felt a sudden compulsion to get them away from here, to shield Sam from this cruel foreign world that looked on him with such accusing eyes.

_That fuckin' retards yer brother? _

Dean felt anger rise once again, but then hesitated. He thought of the look in Sam's eyes as he threw off the two thugs holding him down, the determination, the burning strength as efficiently dispatched every single one of their attackers with a single, well calculated blow. He thought also of the compassionate, gentle soul who often kept Dean in check when he was on the brink of disaster. He smiled, warmth flooding his chest, face beaming in silent challenge to the world.

_Yes, _He thought _yes, he's my brother, and I'm damned proud of him. He may be a freak, but he's my little freak, nobody else's. _And Dean wouldn't have him any other way.

"Wasn't your fault." He muttered, gruffly, patting Sam off-handedly on the shoulder and steering him towards the parking lot. For a while, they walked in slow silence, each quietly struggling under the weight of their mild but nonetheless taxing injuries.

"Are you really okay, Dean?"

"I promise you, Sammy, I'm fine. You?"

"I'm…okay. I guess. Yes, I mean…I'm fine."

Dean grappled internally with himself, caught in indecision. He had promised, hadn't he? He had done better this time; he hadn't completely abandoned Sam, but it had been close. And it had been unacceptable. He had sworn he would take the first step in disciplining himself; in letting Sam know that he did care, that he was going to try harder. That he wouldn't fail him again.

Had Sam's head not been scrambled before Dean got to him that night…Dean was pretty sure that Sam would have lost the implicit trust he had in his big brother. Dean had betrayed his little brother; and besides making up for it…he also had to apologize. He _had _to.

"Hey, um…Sammy?"

Sam stopped, and turned, just a few feet ahead of him. Dean hesitated, and shivered suddenly, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. Jeez, it was cold out here…

"Uh huh?" Sam prompted, eyes wide in question. Dean swallowed, and drew himself up, clearing his throat.

"I'msorrytoo." He burst out, suddenly finding his shoes utterly fascinating. Were those cashmere laces? "Y'know. For leaving you like that."

Sam looked at him wearily, and said nothing. Dean squirmed uncomfortably, feeling suddenly as though he was the child, and Sam the long-suffering adult, quietly wondering whether or not forgiveness was appropriate. A chill breath of wind rose up and tossed about the empty air, the temperature plummeting yet further. Slowly, Sam wrapped shaking hands around himself and closed his eyes tightly shut, looking suddenly sickly and pale.

"Can we please just go?" He whispered through chattering teeth "I don't like it here."

Dean nodded curtly, wincing as he noticed that his limbs had cramped up from the cold. He hastily shook himself, rotating his ankles and rolling his neck, feeling the bones creaking as they stretched.

"Sure thing, little man. Just give me a sec to get my limbs in vague natural order and we'll be off."

He interlocked his fingers and stretched his hands high above his head, arching his back, and groaned, ignoring the flare of pain which shot through his right wrist with difficulty. The wind picked up, and Dean was suddenly aware that apart from its rush and sigh, the empty night air was utterly silent. Unnaturally so.

Suddenly, Sam gasped, and Dean's eyes snapped open.

"Sam?" He inquired, cautiously, but Sam seemed not to hear him. His face had gone completely white, blood draining from it faster than the blink of an eye, and Dean could see his entire body shuddering violently with fear. Concerned, he moved closer, reaching out to touch his brother's arm.

"Sam, what is it?"

Sam's hands shot out, grasping Dean by the upper arms in a vice-like grip, and Dean hissed as the pain in his wrist multiplied tenfold. However, the utter terror in Sam's eyes as he looked at him quickly banished any thoughts of mere physical pain from his mind.

This could _not _be good.

"Get back to car. Get away. Dean, we have to get away." Sam babbled desperately, eyes flitting about the surrounding darkness, searching, and Dean could feel the tremors in Sam's very bones as fear wracked his fragile form "It's coming, Dean."

Dean felt as though a bucket full of ice had been dumped on his chest, and he breathed heavily, feeling winded. Each breath came out in streams of hot smoke as it battled with the freezing air around them. A hysterical smile wove it's way across Sam's lips, his eyes dancing with petrified insanity.

"It's coming…" Sam repeated, swaying, looking like he was going to pass out. Dean grabbed his brother's shoulders and shook him, hard, trying to knock some sense back into him, panic beginning to overwhelm him, too.

"What, Sam?" He demanded, harshly "What's coming?"

Sam stilled.

A single shudder ran from the base of his skull along the length of his spine, and his legs shook, Dean's hands on his shoulders just about the only thing left holding him up. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He gasped in a few short, sharp, uneven breaths, eyes wild, desperately trying to convey to his brother the _horror_…the pain…

Dean watched in confusion as Sam lifted a trembling hand and slid it across Dean's chest, halting its movement directly above his brother's pounding heart. He pressed down, weakly, and then balled his fist in the fabric of Dean's shirt. He raised his head to stare at Dean with dark, haunted eyes.

"Cold." He whispered, and somehow, Dean understood completely.

-----------------------------

**A/N: Dun, dun, DUN! (trumpets blare)**

**So y'all see, Dean resisted temptation! Smart pup learnt from his mistakes. If he had gone with the girl, I'm pretty sure Sam would be a goner by now, and we'd all be watching our treasured SN DVD's to cheer ourselves up…**

**Also, the impression was given in the last chapter that Sam was alone for quite a while longer than he actually was; Dean only left Sam for ten minutes, no more, it just seemed longer with all the description of the narrative. Sorry about that! I know Dean probably should have taken Sam with him to the bar considering his condition, but he did tell Sam to stay put, and he does ultimately trust Sam to stay out of trouble. He just…miscalculated Sam's sensibilities in his current state of mind. Safe to say, he won't be making the same mistake again. **

**Finally, Sam's mind is supposed to be maturing; so his perspective should be slightly less childish as the story progresses. I hope I'll succeed in expressing that in writing!**

**Next chapter: Finally, the thing which attacked Sam makes an appearance! (ominous noises)**

**Thanks for reading! Feedback makes the world go round, ya know. Review for the pretties! (pets traumatized Sam and Dean)**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:**** (makes dorky 'victory' pose) I'm BACK! Three GCSE's in the bag, seven more to go. (Guhness) But I'm now on study leave, so I have some free time to write!**

**O.M.G you guys are all so lovely! (gets bleary eyed) I feel so loved, I had no idea so many people liked this story so much! (feels guilty) I am so sorry, you guys! Hope this chappy is worth the wait!**

**Thanks so much to all those who continue to review; it makes it all worthwhile, folks! You're awesome!**

**Disclaimer: I asked Kripke if I could borrow it, but he said no. Unsurprisingly. (depression)**

**Enjoy!**

**15.**

Dean managed, somehow, to tear his eyes away from Sam's imploring ones and address the situation. He had already let his brother down once today; he wasn't too keen to have a repeat experience. Besides, his masculinity could only take so many more of these wretched chick-flick moments that seemed to pollute his otherwise macho day.

"Okay." He said, jaw clenched, sounding a lot more confident than he felt, forcing himself to think. _Think. _God dammit, they had to get away from here. With every second the air got thicker and the atmosphere grew colder.

"Okay. The car. We've got to get to the car." He muttered to himself, trying to clear the muggy fog in his brain and think where they had left the Impala. Sam said nothing, merely continuing to glance warily around, shivering, whether from the cold or the fear Dean couldn't tell. Either way, it kick-started him into moving.

"Um…right." He winced as he flexed his arm, glanced around the empty road and located the quickest route to the parking lot "This way. Come on."

The air was now so thick with fog that it seemed to cling to them like some sort of creature, tendrils of cold and flecks of moisture dampening their hair and clothes, weighing them down. Dean just bowed his head and pushed on, grimacing, painfully aware of just how close Sam was keeping to his back. He could feel Sam's hot, rapid breathing almost down the back of his neck, and could have sworn he heard his teeth chattering, too.

He said nothing. Not even a sarcastic quip. For once, he had no time for such things, no patience. Adrenaline and instinct had smothered all leisurely thought; now, he was merely a hunter. A hunter and a brother.

"Hurry." Sam hissed hoarsely, breathless with fear, so close to his ear it made him wince. He was aware of shuddering fingers fisting themselves in the material at his sleeve "Faster. Your legs are too short, Dean. You should eat spinach."

Sam was gabbling now; never a good sign. It meant his mind must have gone on autopilot, spouting every thought in the hope of finding a solution. Dean abruptly stopped, glancing over his shoulder as Sam slammed into him.

"The _hell, _Sam?" He hid his panic under scorn, desperately scanning the pressing obscurity which surrounded them. Nothing. He couldn't see a thing, nothing but fog and swirling mist. He cursed softly. They were lost.

"Eat spinach like Popeye, and get bigger and stronger." Sam muttered through gritted teeth, shaking harder. Dean took a brief moment to marvel at the mystery that was his little brother's mind before grabbing Sam's wrist and hauling him forwards. Keep moving. Just keep moving.

"Yeah, yeah, spinach, Popeye, got it." He said, more to fill the silence than anything, increasing their pace with each step "Quality no quantity is what I always say, and damn if I don't have quality," He grinned "but whatever. Let's just focus on the here and now and stumpy, huh?"

His feet impacted on hard, dark tarmac. Good. The Impala was parked on tarmac, so they were closer now, at least.

"You just insulted yourself." Sam observed, flummoxed, and Dean turned to find his brother blinking at him in confusion, fear momentarily forgotten. It was extremely unnerving to see naivety staring out of Sam's usually keen eyes. His little brother continued to tremble regardless, and one hand still clung to Dean's sleeve like a lifeline. But despite the terror in his gaze, something else caught Dean's attention.

Sam was afraid, but he was looking to Dean to make things right. And he didn't just expect Dean to. He _trusted _him to. And Dean would be damned if he ever broke that trust again.

"Shut _up _and _move_, Sammy." He said, the order coming out less harsh than he had intended. Nonetheless, Sam winced guiltily as he hurried to keep up with Dean's pace.

"Sorry."

Dean sighed at the quiet apology, and shot what he hoped was a wry yet encouraging look over his shoulder.

"It's okay…" On impulse, he clapped his brother on the shoulder "I guess in your state you can't comprehend the finer sides of banter, such as sarcasm, wit, insults against masculinity…"

Where the _hell _was that car?! They had left it just a few yards down the road, it must be around somewhere…Absorbed in the here and now, Dean missed the shift on his brother's face from fear to worry; even slight hurt.

"In my state?" He echoed hollowly, voice sounding terribly thin. "Dean…" he hesitated, then murmured quietly "do you think I'm sick?"

It was such a horrible thing to say, so vulgar and coarse that Dean felt a shudder creep up his spine. _Sick. _Was this what Sam thought? That Dean regarded him as some kind of burden, some kind of diseased version of his brother who wasn't really Sam at all?

_That's horrible. How could he think… _And yet, maybe on some deep, deep level, Dean _had _thought exactly that. Had been so focused on getting Sam back that he hadn't realized that his brother wasn't gone at all. Sam was Sam; no matter how screwed up his mind was, he was still the loveable idiot Dean was proud to call his brother.

"Dean, do you…" Sam trailed off, his painfully expressive gaze filling with hurt "Do you not like me anymore?"

_A tiny body in your arms, thin bones shuddering so hard they feel as though they're shaking themselves apart. Blue lips in a pinched little face, icy skin blanched pale and bloodless with cold. Hard gravel digging into your knees, the creak of a rusty swing. Brown eyes half-lidded, dull and dark with grief .Empty eyes, shakes, cold breaths._

"_Why, Sammy! What the HELL were you thinking!"_

_A voice. Yours? Accusations, anger, fear. Eyes drift shut. No, no, no, not this, you didn't mean it take it back please Sammy no…Your hands close around fragile, bony shoulders and jerk once, hard. Flutter, lift. Empty eyes. _

"_Thought…you didn't like me…anymore…"_

Dean gasped like he had surfaced from being submerged in deep water, and Sam flinched back from him in surprise. No. He couldn't go there. Not now. He had a job to do: get them both out of here, safe, alive. Whatever was coming, it was coming soon. Real soon.

"No way, Sammy." He shook his head firmly, forcing the telltale tremble from his voice "No matter what you do, I'll always like you just the way you are. No matter how geeky or weird or disturbing that happens to be."

He turned, felt Sam do a couple of quick steps to catch up as they began to move again, sticking close together in the still impenetrable fog. It made Dean uneasy. Why was nothing happening? Why had whatever was coming not attacked yet? Why wait?

"Dean…" This time he did not stop, merely grunted an affirmative "What's wrong with me?"

Dean sighed, turned his head slightly and quirked his lips in a wry yet encouraging smile. Why did Sam always assume it was he that was the problem? Why did he always strive to take the fault and the blame, even when it was all Dean. All his fault.

"Your vibes are just a little squiffy, is all. You're okay, kiddo, I promise. It's even kinda nice to not have you being snarky all the time-"

Something hard and metallic suddenly impacted against his leg, and he grimaced at the stinging jolt of pain, reaching out blindly until his hand caught cool steel.

"Hey, I think my baby found my knee. And not in a good way."

Sam made a little gasping sound.

"Dean, look…" He pointed a the front left tyre of the Impala. Dean squinted through the mist, and then his eyes widened, face twisting with blatant fury:

"Son of a BITCH!"

"The tyres. They're…"

"Fuckin' slashed." Dean clenched his fists. The damn punks. They must have run over and gotten to the car before they left "They _SLASHED _my _BABY_! Those bastards. I'll fuckin' kill them!"

"Dean?"

"And that model and fit is really hard to get hold of, too! They don't make cars like they used to. Fuck, dammit, dammit!"

"DEAN!"

"WHAT?"

Sam flinched, and lifted his clenched fist to nibble tensely at his knuckles; something he only ever did when he was beyond nervous. A slightly hysterical smile twisted his lips "It wasn't them." Dean raised his eyebrows in question "I think it's here."

It. The thing that attacked Sam.

"Shit."

-----------------------------

"What do we do?" Sam asked through a mouthful of knuckle, hopping from foot to foot as Dean rifled through the trunk for the biggest baddest arsenal he could find. He could feel it coming. But not yet. A few more minutes, but then…

"Get big guns, cling to them and blast anything that moves. And hope. Lots of hoping." Dean muttered distractedly, loading up a shotgun with far more force than was necessary.

"Hope?" Sam murmured, trying to find some meaning to the word, but found that he couldn't. Dean absently shoved a knife in his direction and Sam took it carefully, biting his lip.

"And guns. Don't forget the gun bit."

"I don't think guns will work, Dean." Dean looked up at him, frowning, and Sam searched inside him for words to express the terrible feeling the thing inflicted. Cold. Cold cold cold cold. Loneliness and despair.

"It's not out there. It's in _here._" He tapped at his head, silently begging Dean to understand. If your body was broken it would mend in time. The mind was a far more fragile thing.

"I don't get it." Dean shook his head, frustrated "Aw, crap. I'm getting a gun anyway. It'll make me feel better, at any rate." He dug around in his pocket for his phone and flipped it open.

"I'll ring the services for my baby and…" Sam glanced over his brother's shoulder, wincing a little when a loud negative beep sounded from the small device "Huh. Great. No reception. We'll have to walk to the next payphone or something…"

A deep sigh sounded around them, long and slurred, and it seemed as if the very earth itself was turning in it's sleep. Sam tensed up, spun around in a circle, breathing hard. Closer. Getting closer. No signal, no phone, no message, no escape.

"Speak no evil." He breathed, then abruptly turned, grabbed Dean by the jacket and shook him, hard "We need to go. Now. Dean? Please? Can't we just…" something giggled, and his blood ran cold "…run…"

A warm hand scalded the back of his neck and he flinched violently. Dean's face swam before his vision, and he was suddenly aware that the ground was tilting drunkenly from side to side "Sammy? What is it?"

It was a game. A wretched, miserable, never-ending game. Cat and mouse, cops and robbers, the hunter and the prey "Run, run, run, as fast as you can…"

"Uh…okay? Good plan, let's go? Sam?"

"Two blind mice. Two blind mice. See how they run."

Sam covered his face with his hands and let his fingers slide up to his hair, gripping painfully. He whimpered and tossed his head from side to side, trying to dislodge the growing, unbearable pressure building in his head. The hand on his neck slid down to rub circles in his back, and slowly, his gasping breaths eased into a more easy rhythm.

"We're in no condition to go anywhere, least of all run for it." Came Dean's firm voice from somewhere beside him "I think whatever _it _is, is boxing us in. 'Sides, look what happened to you when you went running out after it. Stay and hug guns and hope, I say."

A resounding BANG cut through the air like a gunshot, and Sam cried out while Dean nearly jumped out of his skin. The Impala dipped to one side with a hiss of escaping gas. A silvery laugh trilled through the thin air, and Sam's stomach turned over as he heard the light tip-tap of dainty footsteps. No. No no no no no no no no…

"What the HELL just-"

Something whipped through the fog with a sharp twang and struck Sam a glancing blow across his cheek. The force of the impact sent him sprawling to the ground, and he groaned as he felt the skin of his cheek split open and spill blood across the road.

"SAM! SAMMY!"

His head was pounding so hard he was afraid it would burst, and he screamed at himself to move. It was coming back. He could hear her. She was coming back and he couldn't stop her and what if Dean-

"SAM! Get the hell up! Shit-" Hands on him. Cold. Dizzy. He wanted to sleep, but-

His eyes snapped open, to see Dean crouching concernedly over him, and behind him, a dark figure and a flash of metal. He opened his mouth wide but no sound came out. Speak no evil.

_I win, Sammy. You lose!_

"**DE-**"

A pair of white, bloodless little hands clapped over Dean's eyes and he was torn backwards away from Sam, and became swallowed by the swirling fog. Sam lashed out at the space where Dean had been just milli-seconds before, and he choked as panic strangled him.

"No…no no no…Dean…**DEAN**!"

He couldn't see. He couldn't think. He stumbled to his feet and ploughed through the cold mist, lashing at it, trying to clear it, searching desperately for the sign of a leather jacket, dark hair, skin, hazel eyes, anything.

_I'm tired of this game, Sammy. _

Sam's heart turned to stone. He cried out as something swept his feet from under him and he landed, hard, cracking his chin against the hard tarmac. He gasped, head spinning, and forced himself to look up.

A pair of shiny black dolly shoes. Lacey, pristine white socks with frills and little black bows and a row of buttons. Dried blood, artistically splattered. The tattered hem of a yellowing dress just visible beneath an apple-red cloak.

_You're no fun anymore._

A thin wrist, slit, skin hanging and gaping revealing pearly white bone. Pale flesh clung to skeletal fingers, clenched tightly around Dean's neck. His head was lolling grotesquely sideways, eyes wide open, blank, unseeing. Her thumb was pressed lovingly against his jugular vein, and Sam could see it pulsating gently against her polished nail.

His stomach heaved, but he choked it down, gasping and floundering like a dying animal.

_I've got a new toy. See? It's new and shiny and stronger than the old one. It'll be harder to break, and I think it'll be fun. Don't you?_

Obsidian eyes glinted within the cavernous depths of a red hood, and a wide, childish mouth opened wide and emitted a gleeful laugh. She drew back her arm and threw Dean's lifeless body to the ground with a sickening thud, before turning on her heel and becoming consumed in the now thinning mist.

Quiet. Blank hazel eyes staring straight into his, mouth hanging open slightly, as though in sleep.

Sam screamed.

-----------------------------

_Wakey wakey!_

Blackness. Complete and utter blanketed dark, impenetrable. He felt like he was floating. A flicker of colour caught his eye, and he twisted sluggishly, peeling his eyelids back with considerable effort.

He had been expecting something a bit…bigger.

She…no, it, was in the shape of a little girl. A considerably worse for wear little girl, it looked like. He couldn't see its face, which was concealed by a red hood, but something foul-smelling was filling the air. Its skin was sallow where it was whole, and blackened and scorched where it was rotted. He could see the stubs of kneecaps above its lacy socks, and there was a large soaked bloodstain leaking across the remains of a yellow dress.

"So you're…what?" he drawled, his voice hoarse "The retarded illegitimate offspring of a Nazgul and a Dementor?"

_You're funny. I like you._

It leant forward, its breath rattling, and the smell became overpowering. Dean wrinkled his nose and made a disgusted sound.

"Sorry, sweetheart. Can't say my first impressions of you are favourable…I mean, the grabbing and the fog and the cloak? Complete turn off." Inspiration struck him as he eyed her faded red cloak, and he grinned offhandedly "Oh, I get it, you're little red riding hood, right?"

There was a moment of silence.

_What are you afraid of, Dean?_

Dean was taken aback, but quickly recovered "Nothin'. I just have a certain aversion to planes that manifests itself in an imitation of fear. Like an allergic reaction."

The thing giggled, clasped its rotting hands in front of it and trilled in a sing-song voice:

_Birds of a feather flock together,  
And so will pigs and swine;  
Rats and mice will have their choice,  
And so will I have mine._

Dean raised his eyebrows, thoroughly unimpressed "You're making about as much sense as Sam on morphine and skittles." Long story. "Just cut to the chase, bitch."

_Fee! Fie! Foe! Fum!  
I smell the blood of a Hunting-man.  
Be he 'live, or be he dead,  
I'll grind his bones to make my bread!_

Dean gathered his strength and lunged forwards, but it danced out of his reach, laughing mockingly "Not before I kick your scrawny corporeal ass!" his fingers caught the edge of it's cloak, and it froze "Let's see what you really look li-"

The head was black with decay; here and there the bony ridge of a cheekbone or jaw was visible beneath scarce flesh, yet the eyes were whole, bright china-blue with huge, dilating pupils. The mouth hang gaping wide open, as though the jaw was dislocated, and tufts of hair with the remains of bows hung from the top of the skull.

Hung from its sallow, sunken neck, was a very familiar object. A broken, circular wooden structure with strings weaved across in a disjointed pattern. Only one feather remained hanging on a length of beads. A dream catcher. The very dream catcher Dean had hung in the motel room all those days ago before leaving to meet Cassie.

It had been snapped in two.

"Dream reaper." He hissed at the creature, eying the tangled mess of string which adorned its shoulders. The thing grinned grotesquely, its tongue lolling "Son of a bitch."

_That's rude, Dean. I have a real name. It's pretty, like me! Can you guess what it is?_

Shit. He'd never come across one of these. Hell, _Dad _had never come across one of these. He didn't know enough. He didn't know how to stop it or wound it or even kill it. Nobody who had encountered one had been sane enough to tell.

"I'm gonna rip you apart, you ugly little freak." He hissed through gritted teeth "Just as soon as I-"

_Don't call me ugly. That's not nice. I know, would you play with a more familiar face?_

The dream reaper pirouetted neatly on the spot in a blur of colour, and Dean blinked, then scrambled hastily backwards, his lips curling. Standing in place of the vision of a rotting girl was the form of a six year old Sammy, complete with grubby sneakers and a plaster on his left knee. The reaper grinned cruelly with his little brother's face, its skin too pale and its eyes deep black instead of soft, expressive brown.

The reaper took an unsteady step towards him, and feigned a look of hurt when Dean scrambled away from it. Sammy's face pouted, and the reaper clapped its hands sharply, once.

_Do you like my new toy, Dean? _

Suspended limply from long, metallic strings was a doll. A doll with short, spiky brown hair and a comically angry look on its face. A doll with a leather jacket and shirt and jeans and army boots. A doll with hazel eyes. No. not a doll. A _puppet._

Dean stared, lost for words, and felt suddenly afraid. He swallowed as the reaper laughed and shook the strings it held in its fingers, making the doll jiggle and wave its arms unnaturally.

_It's pretty, __don't you think? Dean and I want you to play with us, big brother. _Sammy's face gave him a pleading look, but a cruel smile twisted its thin lips that his brother would never be able to achieve _Will you play?_

_Let's play pretend. _

Dean's entire body went cold, as though it had been plunged into a bath of ice. He breathed hard, and twisted and bucked in pain, pressing his lips tightly together to stop himself from crying out.

_LET'S PLAY!_

-----------------------------

"Don't go to sleep. Dean. Wake up. Dean!"

Sam shook his brother's lifeless body so hard he could practically feel the bones rattling around inside, keeping up a constant stream of demands and threats and pleas. Eventually he stopped, trembling with exhaustion, and sank down, gulping in air cool evening air.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." He murmured, and tugged Dean to his chest, resting his forehead against his brother's hair "I'll be good. I won't do it again. Just wake up. Please?"

He rocked slowly back and forth, crooning and sobbing quietly, feeling pathetic and useless and like he had been torn in two. Dean's skin was freezing and clammy and his limbs sprawled awkwardly, but Sam only clung tighter.

"I'm scared." He choked, the words echoing about the empty road, his throat constricted and his whole head burning. He couldn't see through the tears of frustration which poured down his cheeks like cleansing fire.

"I'm _really _scared." He swallowed thickly "But…"

More than that, more than anything else…he didn't feel the cold anymore. Something was burning deep inside him. Some deep, dark, powerful force had lit a fire in him that was spreading molten strength throughout his whole body. He shivered and flinched at the intensity of it.

"But…I'm also angry." He slurred, slowly, as though in a trance, and his face twisted into an expression of deep fury, making it terrible and unnatural.

"Really…really…really…angry…" he murmured, and raised his head, resting his chin on the top of Dean's head. He felt…strange. Whole, yet torn. His mind felt fragile, yet more alive than it had felt in days.

"You hurt my brother."

There was no answer, and this only served to fuel the deep hatred that was twisting his insides with a pain that was beyond pain.

"I'll kill you. You hear me? I mean it. I will."

He threw back his head and screamed at the top of his lungs:

"**I'LL KILL YOU!"**

His heart felt as though it was trying to fold in on itself. The icy cold that fogged his mind and dulled its senses shied and hissed as it was pushed back by the heat which flowed through him. a thousands thoughts and feelings flashed before his mind, memory upon memory, built upon each other and forming the foundation of his very being, links forming and fusing stronger than ever before. Dad, Jessica, college, hunting…Dean. Always Dean.

His attacker had made a fatal mistake. He had broken Sam by using his greatest weakness against him…his brother. But it had failed to realize that Dean was also Sam's greatest strength.

"Get away. Go away. Leave us alone, or I'll kill you. I'll hunt you down and tear you apart." He muttered breathlessly in a frenzy, clutching Dean protectively to him "Get AWAY! NOW!"

Clap. Clap. Clap.

_Oh, very, very good. I think I'll enjoy this. I thought you were getting boring, but we're just getting started. I'm glad. So glad!_

He felt cold breath on the back of his neck.

_Try and interfere, and thing__s'll get bad. Understand? You're not a player. I'll be forced to play rough. See? _

Cool metal across his throat.

_Don't interfere. _

-----------------------------

**A/N: Oh noes, Dean! (does the Dean!Angstyhurt dance of joy) Why do I do this to the boys? (shrugs) Meh. **

**Next chapter: John finally get's his act together! Sammy angsts and lugs his brother to safety, and Dean…well, wait and see!**

**Note on the dream reaper: more will be explained on how this supernatural being works later – see if you can work it out! I actually made this concept up, as far as I know, it doesn't exist in legend. **

**Thanks for reading! Review and Thursday will come faster! (hopefully) Hang in there folks!**


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